Counterpoint
by Coginom
Summary: It started with "Ziver". A canon post-mortem to 16x24 "Daughters", tracking Ziva's journey to save much more than Gibbs' life. Three years is a long time to be dead and there is more to Ziva's agenda than meets the eye. COMPLETE.
1. Gibbs

**Tag**: It started with "Ziver". A post-mortem to 16x24 "Daughters", tracking Ziva's journey to save much more than Gibbs' life. Three years is a long time to be dead and there is more to Ziva's agenda than meets the eye.

**Claims: **This story is canon up to the end of 16x24 with regard to, I think, all major story arcs and characters. But since I haven't been following NCIS for six years, I have also taken creative liberties where they seemed to serve characters and plot. Please excuse and allow them. This is Ziva-centric, as always, because she needs to be granted her due. I own nothing; just trying to weave all the stray ends together.

**Story: **The story will be comprised of five chapters plus epilogue. They will be posted consecutively.

* * *

**2019: COUNTERPOINT**

** **Gibbs**: Taking Point **

"Ziver."

In six years she had not heard his voice, nor her name being given his particular inflection. It should have brought it all back, the turmoil of six years ago, her hand quivering, pressing the phone to her ear and failing to explain reasons inconceivable, at the time, even to herself. But it didn't bring back any of it. Instead, she opened her eyes to Gibbs' disbelief and gaping stare, his signature slate crumbled into pieces of emotion.

She had pictured this moment so many times since she had decided to come back — though, _decided_ seemed like the wrong word, too calculated — and _come to act_ (that worked better) on the sudden U-turn in the circumstances of their separate existence. She knew — well, she _hoped_ — it would change everything for her. But so uncertain had she been of his feelings towards her, her surrogate father's, that bracing for the worst possible scenarios had been her biggest comfort. On the car ride over here, down familiar Washington streets, she had swiped through the most brutal silences in her head, had conjured his most hardened glares. Mentally shadowboxing her way through what would have been all valid responses to her return, it had never occurred to her that Gibbs might just be glad to see her.

Then: inhale; exhale. "Ziver."

It put her back in the interrogation room after she had died the first time. After Somalia. After the camp. She had bared her soul to him and resigned a life beyond her control. With a tap of his finger and her name, intoned as only he could, he had taken her back. Permission to live.

"You're home now." He had whispered it to no one but her.

And though so much had changed and her idea of home had shifted since, her face bloomed with the brightest smile. Gibbs looked as though her name felt funny on his lips. She remembered Tony, in a fit of uncharacteristic rage, lamenting the team's collective refusal to speak her name. Her name had faded to become myth, a distant tale to accent a word of caution or a parental rule. In Israel, swaddled in her own self-prescribed loneliness, she had constantly failed to consider how lonely Tony had felt amid all the people they both had loved. Letting her eyes briefly roam the familiar reaches of Gibbs' basement, so very unchanged, she thought that maybe they had all been alone in their grief for one another.

That was the past, though. Circumstances had changed; _would_ change. Allowing herself to cash in on those unfulfilled hopes, Ziva held onto her smile and brushed wild hair back behind her ear.

"Whatever questions you have, ask them," she offered. "But I'd prefer you do so in the car."

"You got a car?"

"Out front," she said.

He nodded and lifted his head towards the stairs, cueing their ascent. "Lead the way."

It felt as easy as that. At the top of the staircase, Ziva granted herself a moment to breathe in the familiar scent of Old Spice, Bourbon and brittle firewood. She took a glancing sweep of the kitchen and the living room that both had provided such comforts to her over the years. Too anxious to investigate on her way in, she now found neither much changed. Pictures of Layla and Amira showed both of them older, steadier, and happy. Ziva was glad to see it, thinking of the pair often. Apart from some novel trinkets and a few inches of adjustment not a lot contrasted the memory she had been carrying with her all this time. Still, she felt a clenching unease, noticing a dark sheen that hung over it all; a sheen she had never known here before.

Then Gibbs suddenly stopped her in the foyer. He was holding a baseball propped up on his fingertips, proffering it to her. When had he grabbed that? She looked at him, eyes narrowing questioningly.

"Hold that for a sec?", he asked.

His request didn't answer the question in her eyes, but she followed it anyway. Balancing the white seamy orb in her palm, hand outstretched and still confused, he just nodded, retrieved it and tossed it onto the couch without much ceremony.

Unperturbed, he continued, "So where we going?"

"The director is waiting for us," she replied slowly, inviting his challenge. When it came, she let it break as a smile on her face.

"Mine or yours?"

"You have a director, Gibbs. I have old friends."

Though she was keeping her responses and voice light, Gibbs did not budge. She wasn't all that surprised. It couldn't be that easy; it wouldn't be easy. Years had passed. She had left NCIS for her homeland, once again, and silence had succeeded her. She didn't deceive herself into thinking that time had frozen them in place in spite of her absence. She had certainly changed, much changed. If she had taught herself one thing in the past few years, it was not to begrudge herself a past. And so she took a step back and settled in. Linking her hands together, she motioned for him to continue.

"I guess, the most pressing questions need addressing _before_ we can get into the car," she offered.

Gibbs squinted at her. "Why you here?"

"As I said, you are in danger."

"How?"

Ziva tilted her head to the side, appraising him. "Don't tell me, Gibbs—" His unabated stare prompted her to go on, her lips pursed. "Don't tell me you didn't catch on when you found my notebook on the couch and not on the table where you left it. And with the last page missing."

Gibbs shrugged. "Been seeing lots of ghosts round here."

Ziva swallowed her next comment and took, instead, a long, hard look at Gibbs. He had always appeared so impervious to change, so Gibbs, so permanent in time, she hadn't thought to do it before. His air, though, wasn't imposing, as she had expected, so much as exuding real loss and confusion. She allowed herself to acknowledge that what she had earlier thought a mere intake of breath — inhale, exhale — to have been much more than that: the moment hope-beyond-hope of a daughter returning from the dead had materialized at the top of his basement steps. His relief, maybe, had been too great to keep locked inside. It was all a little much.

"I needed that page. I had to make good on my promise to Morgan's mother. She died never seeing her daughter again. I just couldn't let that be," Ziva continued, her face not hiding a tinge of pain. "Even if it meant leaving Ellie to protect a secret that is not hers to bear. I didn't want her to betray your trust while doing so."

Gibbs' mouth gaped for a moment, then exclaimed in uncharacteristic high pitch an innocent accusation. "Could've just shown yourself."

"I couldn't just then. I was still...," she trailed off, searching for the right term. "Figuring things out."

"Figuring. Things."

Ziva watched Gibbs examine her, but held his gaze. "I came here of my own accord, Gibbs. Not on anyone's orders," she said, a proclamation and promise. The grey shades of irony were not lost on either of them, though, having just stood where she had taken her brother's life at her father's behest and of her own volition to save Gibbs' life.

He nodded, then dropped the other shoe out of midair. "You got a daughter now."

Mention of Tali fast returned a smile to her face. "I do," she confirmed softly.

"Then why _now_, Ziver?"

She took her time, realizing that this, right there, was the first time they had ever addressed each other as one parent to another. "Do you remember, Gibbs," she asked, "What I said to you about my mother? How she never told me what kind of a man my father was?" Gibbs didn't move a brow and she took it as a sign to continue. "I wondered whether she had thought me not strong enough to know the truth. But you said that she was just being a mom. Doing what she had to. Protecting me. You called it—"

"Perspective," he finished for her, remembering just as well.

"Yes," Ziva confirmed. "Trust my perspective, Gibbs. I am doing this for her also."

A beat, then Gibbs stepped aside and held the door open to her.

"Okay."

* * *

The car was a simple black sedan, nothing flashy enough to have ever engaged Tony's moods. If Gibbs had expected a red Mini, he chose not to show. Ziva felt like commenting on it at first but, glancing over, swallowed the quip readymade on her tongue. Silence and stares, she knew, were Gibbs' preferred mode of communication. "Functional mute," Tony's voice whispered through a smirk in her head. She had missed the silences, missed the steadfast comfort they provided her, but somehow she felt them acutely today. Maybe silences were not as comforting anymore.

The streets were empty, scarcely a car around them. It wasn't until a red light had Ziva slow to a halt and the steady passing zoom of neighborhoods ceased that he suddenly placed a hand on hers when she grabbed onto the gear shift. She felt the calluses lining his palm and dipped her head, the gesture ever so intimate and ever so unfamiliar. As suddenly as he had reached out, he pulled back again and shuffled further down his seat. Ziva sought his eyes, but he wasn't looking at her.

"We missed ya, Ziva," he said, his voice raw.

She smiled. "A lot has happened," she sort of agreed, returning her hand to the steering wheel. The feel of his sudden gesture lingered. She hit the gas pedal and carried on.

"She's beautiful," Gibbs declared at once and she could see him turning to look at her in the corner of her eye, now that she was back focused on the road ahead.

Not quite finding the words, Ziva nodded slowly. She took a moment, then settled for a small smile. "Get my bag?", she suggested.

Not questioning her request, Gibbs arched around her seat and retrieved the brown leather bag from the back. Checking for her approval once more, which she provided with an eager nod, he flipped it open and found it almost empty: a crumpled piece of tissue, her wallet, a keycard, and a white piece of paper, DIN A4-sized and folded in half.

"The paper. Take a look."

He complied and turned it over. It was a child's drawing. The artist had clearly passed the stick figure phase and moved on to mastering two-dimensional corporeality. Two cones, one much smaller than the other, sat atop two pairs of angled rectangles each. The bigger cone had longer rectangles for legs and a larger sphere for a face, with bright green specks for eyes, a brown tousle of hair and tiny dots in the bottom half framing a sizable red smile. The smaller cone was bright yellow, shorter legs peeking out from wavy yellow edges. A heap of thin, brown springs, diligently drawn, crowned another green-eyed, smiling sphere. Their hands — five fingers each, spread wide, and attached to thick rectangular arms — were touching at their fingertips. They were placed on a green slab of grass, with wavy flecks of blue clouds overhead and an orange house with a red roof beside them.

"It's not prudent to have a picture of her on me," Ziva explained. Her voice had gotten thinner. "So I bring a picture drawn by her."

"Got a real artist on your hands there," Gibbs observed, still studying the drawing.

Ziva gave a small laugh, dabbing the corner of her eye with the crest of a finger. "Her teacher says she's quite advanced for her age."

Gibbs carefully slipped the paper back into Ziva's bag. "DiNozzo really stepped up."

"Did you ever doubt him?", Ziva quipped but, glancing over, did not find Gibbs smiling any longer. "You did?", she asked then, genuinely surprised. Whatever happened to Rule #5?

"I didn't know _what_ to think anymore," he said, dropping her bag onto the backseat. "He wasn't happy. Not without you."

Ziva nodded. "He told me as much."

She took a hard left swerve and Gibbs grabbed onto the handlebar above his head. "Before he—"

"After." Ziva glanced over briefly, re-aligning the car on the road, and nodded once more. The moment felt like it deserved more forceful confirmation. "After he left NCIS."

"So he found you."

"Yes, he found me."

She hit the blinker and slowed, coming to rest perfectly parallel to the curb of a residential street. Gibbs processed her words in silence, but his gaze never let up now. Ziva gave him the time he needed, hands in her lap, and watched him in silence.

"Glad he found you," Gibbs admitted eventually. "And Tali."

Hearing Gibbs drop her daughter's name shot through her with a pang of guilt and the searing pain of loss, but she chose to put on a smile instead. "They're both fine, Gibbs," she assured him. "Both happy."

Gibbs nodded. "We gonna keep going?", he asked, jabbing a cursory thumb at the windshield.

"We're here, actually," Ziva retorted, gesturing instead out the window by his side.

They had parked in front of a small unassuming house, a garden with a tree out front, framed by a metal gate and fence. It was coated in white paint just like the houses to its left and to its right.

"One of my father's safe houses. One of his many assets that transferred to me," Ziva explained, already getting out. "I imagine Director Vance is already here. But I wanted to come get you myself."

* * *

"Well, I'll be damned," Vance's exclamation hit as the front door closed behind Gibbs and his eyes landed on Ziva. "Guess I should thank you for not beating down my door on a school night. All raised from the dead."

They met him standing amid a fully furnished living room, with shelves and shelves of books lining the walls around a set of two couches, a coffee table and a floor light that was bathing the scene of their strange reunion in a faint orangey glow. The furniture looked uncannily lived-in, down to the scruff marks on the carpet and empty glasses on the counter of the open kitchen unit.

"I thought this would offer more privacy," Ziva half-quipped. "And you know this address well."

Vance nodded. "One of Eli's aces."

Gibbs paid no heed to their conversation, though, and charged out from behind Ziva at once. He stopped only for Vance's face. "Did you know, Leon?", he demanded, his voice low.

"I suspected just like I know you did, Gibbs," Vance responded, holding his senior agent's glare. "No body found, no hair out of place on that little girl. But I didn't know."

"He didn't, Gibbs," Ziva confirmed, stepping between them, if at a distance. "I lived as a ghost these past three years. No one— That is,_ good_ as no one knew."

The last sentence visibly piqued their interest and they turned to her in unison. Gibbs released Vance from his glare and stepped back. A curt nod told her to keep going.

"Before you start, though," Vance raised his hand to stop her. "It's good to see you back, Special Agent David."

"Ziva," she retorted with a smile, nodding in appreciation.

"Now," he continued, his hands buried in the pockets of his coat. "Tell us what the hell we're doing here."

"I have information that Gibbs' life is in danger," Ziva explained almost absently, rummaging through her bag to retrieve the piece of tissue.

She carefully unfolded it and stepped forward. Holding the tissue open in the flat of her palm, she used a fingernail to produce a small tear in the uppermost layer, right by the ridged company logo. When she offered it to Vance under the light, he saw what she had just exhumed: a tiny microchip of less than a quarter of a square-inch.

"What'll we find on it?" Vance slipped a letter from his pocket. The paper visibly bore Ziva's handwriting and signature. She dropped the chip onto the dried ink of her words and he safely returned it all to its envelop, putting both swiftly away for safekeeping.

"Names, dates, movements, supply networks."

"Whose?"

Upon Gibbs' question, Ziva turned to address him. "A couple of weeks ago your case involved vigilantes operating out of the US, yes?" He nodded a quick confirmation. "It's much bigger than you think, Gibbs. Much bigger than what you've been finding it to be."

Vance looked between the pair, now locked in a stare that spoke untold volumes. "What am I missing here? Gibbs?"

Gibbs eyes were set in a defiant squint, his lips a thin line, so Ziva chose to answer in his stead. "Gibbs has been going back to the files on the vigilante case as they pertain to Navy personnel."

"Their commissions, you mean?"

Ziva nodded, still staring at Gibbs, whose stance was as stoic as ever. "Whether any of them were cases we were involved in. Whether the perps were still out there."

Realization dawned on Vance's face and he turned on Gibbs. "You're operating a side-show."

"Haven't got the team involved," Gibbs clarified defiantly, then posed his question right to Ziva, ignoring Vance. "How do you know?"

"It started out unrelated. But our investigations crossed paths about a week ago. Maybe a little more."

"How?", Gibbs repeated.

Ziva frowned. "I had more resources at my disposal than you."

"Whose resources?", Vance asked, adding a quick afterthought, "Not ours."

"You're ruffling all sorts of feathers, Gibbs," Ziva pressed on, evading the question. "In places yet unknown to you."

"Which places?"

Gibbs had been studying her all this time; not once had he taken his eyes off her, and only her. Ziva had let him, leading him further and further to the circumstances he had probably suspected to be true from the start.

"Mossad," he surmised.

"So the guy who delivered your letter to me earlier tonight," Vance continued, catching on to Gibbs' line of thinking. "One of Elbaz's men?"

Ziva nodded. "Have McGee take a look at it," she said, pointing at the microchip stowed away in Vance's pocket. "You will know more by the morning."

Vance nodded, but the look on his face changed into something else entirely. "So, after all this," he said, nodding vaguely at the leftovers of Eli's heritage all around them. "It's Orli who sent you."

"No one _sent _me, Director," Ziva insisted. "Once we started putting together the information and I saw the connection to Gibbs, I made this mission my own. I chose to do this." She turned back to Gibbs. "I chose to come here."

Gibbs remained as unreadable as ever. Had she earlier found confusion and loss on his face, he had buried it again. He nodded, a half-nod, just his chin rising. He remained still. Then he turned.

"You'll catch up your man?", Vance called after him.

"Always do."

"I have a car here," he continued, challenging Gibbs to a response.

He just offered a sideways head toss. "Got a ride."

Vance attention flipped to Ziva who had said back, remained unmoving. "How'd you know? Eli's signal?", he asked, a flat palm pressed against the pocket that held her letter, now the chip.

"I've had a long time to—", the word escaped her and she squinted her eyes. A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "_Unbury_ my father's legacy."

He folded his hands behind his back, nodding. "I will see you in the morning, Ziva."

She tipped her head, heard Gibbs open the front door. "Good night, Director."

For a moment it appeared to Ziva as though Gibbs was considering making a break for it, turn right, down the sidewalk, wherever it led. She chose that moment to push the button for the car to unlock. Illuminated by the yellow blinking bleeps sent through the side mirrors, Gibbs eventually got back into the car, eyes stubbornly focused just straight ahead.

"Stop at a store?", he requested when she got in beside him.

"Do you feel like some late-night shopping?", Ziva retorted.

"Not gonna be much of a meal with nothing in the fridge to grill."

"Are you expecting guests?"

"Can't have you stay in a hotel while there's a spare bed in the house," he said gruffly, adding before she could protest, "You still got family here, Ziva."

She didn't know if he had meant it as invitation or reprimand, but this wasn't the time to ask. She conceded with a nod and a small smile.

"Thank you."

* * *

Waking up in Gibbs' spare room, Ziva immediately checked the burner phone she had equipped for her stint in the US. She was surprised to find the powers of Gibbs' house still working on her. At a little before eight o'clock, she had slept well past what her current state of alertness might usually allow. The house felt silent around her. Deciding not to dwell too much on thoughts she could not yet bear to face, she slipped out of bed. Grabbing a new outfit from her duffle bag, she stepped out into the hallway. Familiar wafts of freshly brewed coffee invaded her. She imagined them sticking like aromatic clumps to the sawdust that perpetually coated the air around the house. She found Gibbs' bedroom door wide open, his bed not slept-in.

She took a while in the shower. Bracing her forearms against the wall under the shower head, her hair swept forward, she let the water drum against the muscles that stretched in tense strips over her neck and shoulder blades. They were by far not the ones giving her the most trouble now, at 37 years old. The twitches of pain in her lower back more and more frequently joined stiff joints where breaks had not rightly healed. The taut skin of scars and welts on her body now resisted movements that had felt nimble and easy only a few years ago. They were almost daily reminders of a life, and half-one borrowed, spent fighting and wounded and tortured.

When she finally made her way downstairs, she stopped herself halfway between the hall and the living room. Glancing out the window, the empty space by the curb was giving her pause and she wavered between disbelief and amusement.

"Gibbs isn't here," an unfamiliar voice called to Ziva. "He was being all growly and silences on the phone this morning, so I sent him to the office early."

"In _my_ car?", Ziva asked.

"His is still in the shop, I think. He said he'd be back later to pick you up."

Ziva nodded slowly. "I'm sure he did."

Abandoning both window and further thought, Ziva finally faced the newcomer. Before her stood a tall, blonde-haired woman who she didn't recognize, emitting a battle-worn air that she certainly did. The woman was wearing black-rimmed glasses and dressed in slacks and a t-shirt. She had her arms crossed, holding a cup of black coffee balanced in the crook of her elbow.

"Gibbs mentioned you don't drink coffee, so I put the kettle on when I heard the shower", she continued, already returning to a seat at the kitchen table.

Following her, Ziva noticed a stack of boxes that hadn't been there the night before when Gibbs and her had ended up grilling steaks on the fireplace. They had mostly enjoyed each other's presence and the comfort it provided. She had answered a few questions about her time right after leaving NCIS, and had told him about entering therapy and traveling around Israel until pregnancy had put her on strict bed rest. He didn't press her any further and she appreciated it. In turn, he had answered all her questions about the changes to the team, especially in the wake of Tony's absence. It was from those descriptions that Ziva had a pretty good idea who had been sent here to watch over her.

"I didn't expect Gibbs to even have tea in the house," Ziva remarked, choosing some loose-leaf jasmine tea by mere scent from an assortment of five unlabeled boxes. "Let alone a tea egg."

"I think he dropped by Ducky's when he got these from storage." Ziva followed the casual wave of her hand that indicated the boxes by the fireplace. Yet she felt overcome by suspicion that she might not have been the first person Gibbs had asked to come over. It left a bitter taste in her mouth.

"So, you're Sloane," Ziva ascertained as she took a seat and placed the cup in front of her.

Returning her smile, Sloane reached a hand across the table. "Jack."

"Ziva." They shook hands.

"You're a psychologist's dream, you know?", Jack smirked. She leaned back in her chair and took a sip from her coffee, hand in her hair, elbow balanced on her knee. She was looking at Ziva through wide, curious eyes.

Ziva gave a small laugh. "I am?"

"Yeah," she confirmed. "Left your mark on everything and everyone there."

"Death will do that to things. And people," Ziva retorted, slowly dipping the tea egg further and further into the water and watching the translucent liquid become color. When she looked up, Jack was still smiling at her but had inched forward, now considerably closer.

"Look, Ziva. I'm sure you have to clear the air with some people here, but that's not for me to judge." She had abandoned her coffee and placed both of her hands, palms down, on the table. The gesture felt oddly intimate to Ziva, and open. "As far as I'm concerned, you did what you had to do. What you thought was best for you and your little girl at the time."

It wasn't meant as absolution from a stranger, to whom Ziva admittedly felt no attachment other than what they were forging in those very moments. But Ziva didn't think it to be. She wasn't even that surprised that Gibbs, the tight-lipped functional mute, had shared such tender details. Or maybe Jack had just picked them up, put them together. She seemed like someone who would be well capable of doing so. But Ziva recognized in the other woman techniques habituated over many years of therapy and nodded her head, appreciating the open playing field.

"Also, I know there is more to this than you're telling people right now. That's your right," Jack continued. "I just wanted you to know that things haven't been easy for Gibbs these past few months. You might want to… Exercise some caution." With that, she returned to her coffee and settled back into her chair.

Ziva nodded and got up, breaking their connection via Gibbs' hand-crafted table. She discarded the tea egg in the sink and reached into her pocket for what looked like a snuff box. She retrieved a white pill, placed it on her tongue and tossed her head back, swallowing it with a first, hot sip.

"Does Gibbs know?", she asked, eyes narrowed inquisitively. "How much you care?"

"Frankly, when he called last night, I just really wanted to meet you," Jack shot back brightly, her foot fluttering up and down. "They tell all sorts of stories about you. And the leaderboard down in the NCIS gyms? You're such a great conversation starter."

Ziva laughed again. "Don't tell me I'm still on them after six years."

"Like I said, you left a lasting impression," Jack retorted, shrugging. "Though I did beat your ring best the other week."

Ziva arched an eyebrow. "Psychologist you said?"

"Army Lieutenant. In a previous life."

"Ah," Ziva drew out her moment of realization, then tipped her head in acknowledgement and returned to her seat. "Maybe we can go a few rounds one of these days?"

Jack smiled, returning the gesture. "I'd like that."

The front door opening gave them both a start and they looked up to find Gibbs standing in the entry way to his living room. He looked frozen for a moment, processing the strange circumstances that had placed Sloane and Ziva in the same frame, joined in conversation.

"You're back."

"Good morning, Gibbs," Ziva greeted him, suspicion thickening her voice.

Gibbs just nodded in return, grey eyes settling on Ziva. "You got some explaining to do."

* * *

Chapter 2: **[M'Gee]** \- Chapter 3: [Eleanor] - Chapter 4: [Ziva] - Chapter 5: [Tali] - Chapter 6: [Epilogue]


	2. M'Gee

** **M'Gee**: Returns **

Their drive to the Navy Yard occurred in utter silence. The remnants of rush hour produced a much different backdrop to their journey than nighttime stillness had hours earlier. No strangers, as they were, to the capricious whims of irony, the loud rush mirrored not at all the inside of the car. Gibbs had designated himself the driver and Ziva made no mention of it. He focused on the road, still and unmoving, and Ziva sat, hands folded in her lap, beside him on the passenger seat and participating in his silence. Had the safety of Gibbs' house grounded them with the sheer weight of their shared memories, she had always known and expected it to end at some point. Hers was not a simple rescue mission; and she no superhero.

Gibbs parked the car on his usual spot and together they entered the grand, brick-set office building for the investigative units. Her training kicked in at once. Faces registered, as did gait, gear, intent. Three files of people were lining up behind incessantly beeping arches of army-grade metal detectors. But she hardly recognized a familiar face. The ones she did remember were removed enough not to spring into action as realization hit. The sound of her name never punctured the morning chatter. One of the guards greeted Gibbs effusively and waved him through.

"She's with me," Gibbs explained, scant color in his voice. He nodded at Ziva without so much as looking at her.

She didn't carry much of anything on her person. Gibbs had hardly left her a moment to grab a few dollars from her wallet. At that moment, not a single thing would have easily revealed her identity or affiliation. It felt strange, even after all those years, to think so in that Navy Yard entrance hall of all places. There was nothing to detect, for neither machine nor human, unless you already knew it to be there.

"New case?", the guard asked Gibbs by way of smalltalk. He handed Ziva a visitor's badge which she slipped over her head without a word.

"Something like that," Gibbs mumbled, already leading the way to the elevators.

They got on, Gibbs pressing the button for the uppermost floor, and watched another agent, no older than 20 years in Ziva's eyes, prepare to follow suit. A single glance by Gibbs and a tiny thrust of his chin and the agent stopped short, the elevator doors sliding shut in his face.

Ziva's hands were folded again as she waited, the elevator slowly commencing its ascent. It didn't take long for Gibbs to reach out and flick the emergency switch. When he turned around his eyes were wild with a glare she had prepared to receive much earlier than half a day into this affair.

"You got un-dead just to play for the old team?"

"There are no teams, Gibbs," she answered, not shrinking back from his glare, nor his bark. She looked straight into his eyes. "I told you, Orli did not send me. Mossad is my past." Before he could start again, she added, "As is NCIS."

"That's clear," he said curtly. "There's nothing on that chip."

"There is. It's a dossier. Which is what I told you it was," Ziva insisted.

Gibbs' eyes narrowed. "The encryption's so heavy we got nothing from it."

"That is true," Ziva confirmed slowly, emphasizing every word. "But I have the cipher to decrypt it."

Gibbs moved in on her, now inches from her face. "Quit playing games, Ziva," he growled, but his ferocity did not even incite a flinch. Had he once held command over her, they now met on equal footing.

"Look, Gibbs, a lot has happened in three years. Much more than you think," Ziva explained, untangling her hands and squaring her shoulders enough for Gibbs to realize just how close he had stepped. He backed away, if only slightly. "Everything I have told you so far is true. Whatever you want to accuse me of, that is fine. But you would do well to remember that I will never lie to you."

Gibbs' eyes softened as anger was replaced by frustration. "Was it bad enough to drive you back to Mossad?", he demanded, quieter now.

She felt no anger herself, nor resignation. There was still the fight that had always been there. Though what powered it and gave it color had summarily changed. She did not try to hide her vulnerability in that moment, how much she had to bear.

"You tell me, Gibbs," she replied, her voice so soft all gravity shifted onto her side. "Is being kept away from your family bad enough? Would it make _you _do absolutely everything to change it?"

Gibbs' brow furrowed, as was his tell, and he relented, broke contact and flipped the switch to reactivate the elevator. On the upstairs landing, Ziva allowed him to lead her into the director's office. His new assistant did neither recognize her, nor the sheer oddity of the situation. She just waved them through.

Vance was already waiting for them, seated at the large conference table. He urged her into a chair with a wave of his hand. Ziva took a seat, straight-backed, while Gibbs remained standing, just behind her. Vance slipped a file across the desk and Ziva guessed at the contents as the results of McGee's initial scouring of the chip. He silently invited her to open and read it, but she declined.

Instead, her eyes flickered to the tv screen and the portrait of a man with neatly cropped dark-brown hair, hauntingly blaze-blue eyes, dressed in a black suit, all airs and graces. She quickly found Vance's questioning eyes on her.

"Jorim Betancourt," she identified him, passing the test.

Vance nodded. "Billionaire CEO of A.N.T.E., international shipping company specializing in high-value, high-security cargo. The great Mid-West benefactor. Social high-flyer, fixture in American _and _Israeli high society."

"And keeping an illustrious list of former Mossad operatives on his payroll as cleaners and hitmen," Ziva added. "Which makes this all the more meaningful a case to Director Elbaz."

"I'm sure." Vance folded his hands. "So, good. Talk."

"The information on this chip sits right at the interface of Mossad and NCIS," Ziva started, her voice no shade above professional. "And Director Elbaz would like to share this information with you. She would like to work together on removing the threat of Betancourt's vigilante network."

"I take it you have the authority to decrypt it?", Vance wagered.

Ziva offered a slow nod. "I do."

"If it's her bargaining chip—"

"What's she bargaining for?", Gibbs ended in Vance's stead, following his train of thought and getting rather impatient with it.

Dipping her head and placing a hand on the file, Ziva replied, "I think her exact words would translate to _'entry ticket'_."

"So, what's she want to enter?"

"NCIS," she answered. "A permanent liaison officer."

"Didn't work out that well the first time, did it?", Gibbs gibed, not above a lopsided grin.

Ziva responded with a small smile herself. "She wants someone in Washington," she elaborated, turning her attention back to Vance.

"She wants what Eli had," Vance summarized the deal for himself. "Access."

"I believe— And here I am speaking from personal experience and not on behalf of Director Elbaz," Ziva added quickly, "That an arrangement must be found that makes the rules very clear from the start."

Ziva watched as Vance's eyes flipped up and found Gibbs'. She knew, without turning, that Gibbs had responded with whatever small nod or nudge that caused Vance to continue. "Okay. Those her terms?"

"Yes." Ziva nodded, bowing her head a little and gesturing towards the screen again. "But feel free to call her and confirm."

"Oh, I will," Vance assured her, sitting up a little straighter. "But I'm still curious. This new method of communication." He looked straight at Ziva. "Things haven't been particularly chatty of late. But I'm sure Orli has a loyal roster of agents locked and loaded, ready to be sent over here." He stopped, tilting his head.

Ziva's brow quirked. "Director?"

"Which begs the question—"

"Why you?", Gibbs finished.

"Maybe she thought that someone with your history_, _Ziva, would get better results?"

A small smile returned to her face, eyes on Vance but looking all the way through him as she answered. "I've never liked having anyone just blindly following orders on missions I care about." Then she turned around in her seat, looking right at Gibbs. "And this is something I care about."

Again, their eyes locked in silent rapport, neither of them quite willing to let go and stop before every ounce of additional information had been absorbed from behind the eyes of the other. Out in the foyer, though, they suddenly heard the beginnings of an agitated exchange. A familiar voice drifted in and Ziva could feel her heart give a jolt. It had been six years, and she had missed that voice every day.

"Gibbs."

It was Vance who commanded his attention and with only a meaningful pause passing between them, Gibbs shifted his weight to move, nodding and relenting. When the door snapped shut behind him, Vance turned back to Ziva.

He lifted himself up and walked back around his desk, a hand quickly resting on the oversized black leather chair. Framed by the large bay windows that overlooked the Navy Yard, he continued, "Don't think I don't remember what you did six years ago."

"I will not say that you owe me, Director."

"You should," Vance offered quickly. "Not a day goes by that I'm not sorry about what happened after the shooting."

Ziva closed her eyes briefly, eyes she had turned away from him, then got up as well. Standing, she faced Vance across the ostentatious purpose of his desk, its shiny mahogany, lined with picture frames of his children and late wife.

"Did you find peace, Director?", she asked, truly curious.

"Can't say I'm not sleeping better at night knowing Bodnar's not out there. Not still drawing breath," he admitted, taking a seat and looking up at her through heavy-lidded eyes. "Did you?"

"I don't think," Ziva mused, contemplative and yet well-rehearsed, "I would have known how to process my father's death any other way at the time. But peace was still a long time coming."

Vance nodded slowly. Maybe it was understanding, but Ziva couldn't know for certain. "I'm sure the kids will be happy to hear you're still alive and kicking."

Ziva returned his smile. "How are they?"

"Living their best lives. Not that it'll ever the same after what they've been through."

"No," she agreed with the foresight of knowing. "It cannot."

"I will have to talk to SecNav first," Vance segued again, concluding the repartee dance she had expected of her old boss.

"Naturally."

"In fact, I'll do so right now," he said, waving a hand towards the door and smiling slightly. "Give you some time to catch up."

Ziva bowed her head again and took her leave, not as a soldier would, having received an order, but like a magnet that gravitated, powered by the force of her memories, through familiar and yet-unfamiliar halls. She passed Vance's assistant with a small word of goodbye and found him just outside, right beside Gibbs.

"M'Gee!"

Her voice hit a perfect balance between squeal and sigh of relief, her pronunciation of his name as always her signature. She stepped forward and threw her arms around him in a hug. He was only momentarily caught off-guard, then returned the gesture just as enthusiastically. His hands locked behind her back and they pulled close.

"We thought we'd lost you," he whispered into her ear.

"I know," she admitted, her voice even quieter than his and meant for no one but him. "But I'm about to change that."

If he thought her comment strange, McGee didn't show. Instead, when they broke apart, his hands remained on her shoulders, as if afraid to lose contact. A grin was splitting his face in half.

"It's been such a long time," he exclaimed.

"It has."

"Lots changed," he added more somberly.

"I can see that," Ziva quipped. She was determined to hold onto her smile. She picked at the air around his goatee. "Like a pirate, so dashing."

McGee chuckled. "Clearly, we're focusing on the most important things."

"The most obvious maybe," Ziva replied, but a glint settled in her eyes. "The most important would be to meet your wife and children, yes?"

McGee's eyes grew wide as if only in that moment connecting a reality that included Ziva, alive and well and _there_, with that of his family. "Yes! Come meet them," he suggested. "Tonight? Dinner at my place. I'll text Delilah right now."

"I would love to," Ziva accepted, quieter now. "Thank you."

"Delilah will be thrilled, you just wait. So will the twins," McGee gushed, then stopped himself abruptly. "Wait— So, this is a thing? A thing that can be texted and shared?"

"Yes," Ziva confirmed. Beside her, she could feel Gibbs tense. "I'm taking a leaf from Eli's book."

"Draw out the enemy," Gibbs concluded and Ziva nodded. "Expecting someone in particular?"

"No, but I want to be sure." Gibbs still looked skeptical. "I've spent the last three years plugging all the holes. It's fine."

McGee sought confirmation in her eyes again but relented quickly; too eager not to. He typed a quick text and looked up at her again, still smiling. "I really can't believe it. You're back."

"I am."

Then the door opened and Vance appeared. He addressed them together: Gibbs, the leader of his chief investigative unit; McGee, his seasoned Senior Field Agent — and Ziva.

"We're go," he declared simply. "Orli got herself a deal. But Ziva?"

"Yes?"

"You're not NCIS," he said. "If anything happens, it's you we'll hang out to dry."

* * *

A single nod later and Gibbs had already passed Vance, purpose well on his way to the stairs. McGee and Ziva followed two steps behind.

"Wait till we tell the others—" McGee stopped, and Ziva in turn, when he caught a glimpse of the bullpen below. The three remaining members of the team were peering up at them, eyes wide in unison.

"Cramped quarters, familiar faces, McGee," Gibbs called back up to them in passing, already down the first flight of stairs.

Ziva just smiled and led McGee forward with a gentle hand on his arm. They crossed the squadroom beneath the glare of the overhead lights and Ziva felt as though stepping into reality for the very first time. It hadn't felt as real until now, surrounded as she was by the orange-grey of the low partitioning walls, the looming bay windows, the beeping and dinging of familiar alarms. They hadn't yet caught up with Gibbs' step when a chorus of explanations erupted.

"My buddy Brian, from communications up in MTAC. He recognized—"

"The security guard said—"

"Ellie texted me, using a bomb emoji for some reason—"

"Got a case." Gibbs' call to attention stopped all of them short. He built himself up to his full height. "Gonna be working with an outside consultant on this one."

"Everyone!" McGee took it upon himself to introduce her, Senior Field Agent that he was. A large grin was dancing on his face and he suddenly looked years younger to her, the Probie she had met. "This is Ziva."

Bishop stepped up quickly and Ziva held out her hand. She had watched her from afar, their fates unexpectedly intertwined, as they had worked the Morgan Burke case. It had put a face to Tony's stories and explanations, of which there had been many. Bishop at once ignored her hand. Moving swiftly, she wrapped Ziva up whole.

"It's so good to finally meet you."

Ziva gave a small laugh, slightly startled, but added her arms to the hug. "And you," she responded. "Tony's told me a lot about you."

"He has?"

Ziva nodded eagerly. "Yes! He's very proud of you, you know?"

"I killed your plants," Bishop confessed, forgoing any meaningful segue. "All but one."

"From my office?" Bishop nodded sheepishly, but Ziva just shook her head. "I always thought Odette was watering them in secret. Every plant I ever left there lived much longer than the ones I had at home." Maybe the peace and secludedness acted as safeguards for them. "I'm surprised any of them held out this long."

"Probably adapted and couldn't manage the air," the man beside Ellie quipped, giving her a meaningful look.

"Some office you got there, by the way," McGee commented, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible. But Ziva could tell that she owed him a longer conversation.

For now, she just offered him a small smile. "I never liked bringing these things home with me."

"Nick Torres," offered the man yet unknown to Ziva, grabbing her hand in a fierce shake. "Saw your backup weapons collection. Paint me impressed."

Ziva chuckled. "My old stack," she remembered. "They're yours if you want them."

"Oh, don't tell me you go unarmed these days." He threw his head back, fixing her with a sly smile. "There's rules, you know?"

"I exchanged my knife for this," Ziva retorted, brandishing her visitor's badge. "The only one setting rules for me these days is my daughter."

Ziva's offhand comment landed in the middle of their congregation like an all-around splash of ice water. She felt McGee stiffen a little beside her and Ellie's shoulder square. The only one who seemed wholly unaffected was the young woman in a lab coat, who chose the unforeseen pause to step forward and extend her hand. Ziva took it and she quickly clasped a second one over Ziva's, shaking vigorously.

"I haven't been here long enough to really get why people have the reaction they do when your name comes up," she blurted out by way of an introduction. "But sounds like you're badass and I can totally appreciate that."

Ziva smiled at her appreciatively. "Thank you," she offered. "And you are?"

"Oh, Kasie," she said, her smile widening as she finally let go of Ziva's hand. "I'm the Not-Abby."

Ziva nodded in understanding, but flipped around to meet McGee's eyes. The look on his face told her that he had just had the same thought. They would have to call Abby at some point and bring her into the fold on Ziva's miraculous resurrection.

"We done?", Gibbs interrupted, sounding impatient. But Ziva caught a glimpse of the small smile he quickly tried to hide. "The case?"

"Moving right on, boss," McGee stepped up. "Ziva, you have the cipher?"

"Yes."

For a fraction of a second Ziva's body gravitated to the left, her shoulders rotating in turn, as she aimed for the desk across from Gibbs' on pure instinct. McGee offered her a knowing smile, looking almost sadly at her, and she quickly course-corrected. Stepping behind Tony's former desk without Tony there — all those memories of meeting his eyes, knowing what he was thinking, studying him, reading him, they slipped from her grasp and she felt awash, but momentarily, in a feeling of profound loss.

"Bishop, Torres," Gibbs called the other two forward. "Go to evidence. Bring up everything on the Deakin case."

"The vigilantes?", Torres asked.

Gibbs offered an almost-nod, which was enough to send them on their way. He then took a seat, his knees visibly balking, and retrieved a pair of glasses from his pocket. Armed with sight, he set out for his drawers.

"So um… What about me?", Kasie asked, leaning forward a little to peer at Gibbs over the edge of his desk.

He stilled for only a moment and looked up at her over thick black frames, a frown deep on his face. "Wait?"

"Gotcha." Kasie offered him two thumbs up and, with a last glance at Ziva, turned on her heel. "Lemme catch up on some paperwork. You know where to find me."

Amid McGee's quick onslaught of explanations, Ziva's eyes locked on Gibbs. With a key from the back of his drawer he opened another one in his filing cabinet and withdrew a small black leather notebook. He glanced up, fully aware that she was watching him, and Ziva turned her attention back to McGee just as he asked her, for the third time, to type in her verification code.

"You'd think that the digital age everyone keeps complaining about would go further than this," Torres complained loudly, dropping a sizable evidence box onto his desk half an hour later.

"Protocol," McGee said.

Ellie was already hidden behind another one of the boxes. Peeking out, she quickly added, "Hidden treasure maps sometimes." Her eyes flittered to Ziva and they smiled at each other.

"Here."

Gibbs had appeared out of nowhere by Ziva's side, offering her a chair. It was a full desk chair, not one of the semi-outfitted, straight-backed ones reserved for extras and parked by the spare tables that were tucked away behind walls of partition. Ziva thanked him as she stood from her crouch by McGee's desk. Gibbs guarded her transition, hands resting on the back of the chair, until she had taken a seat.

Slowly, thus, and in the course of the next hours they turned all redacted information into an elaborate dossier of an organized crime network. To Ziva, time passed as it had always done in the squadroom. When McGee received a snap of the twins from Delilah, Torres beguiled them, otherwise unprompted, with a ranking of apps that wouldn't make them appear "old" according to Amanda's recent teachings. Around lunch, McGee proffered pita to share from her favorite Israeli takeout; around two, Ellie brought her back black tea from the vendor in the Yard (apparently he had started using Kasie's own blend). If routine had come to portend any comfort, Ziva was basking in it.

When Gibbs finally emerged from upstairs, he stopped over at Ziva's desk, eyes narrowed. "Director Elbaz sends her regards," he told her. "Looked all pleased."

"I'm sure she was," she retorted lightly, refusing to take his bait.

He offered her a lopsided smile, then planted himself expectantly in front of the center screen. "What do we got?", he demanded and they swiftly assembled around him.

Leading with a grin, McGee offered Ziva the clicker and she picked it from his palm with a flourish and a dip of the head. It felt funny in her hands, smaller, and she wondered if they had replaced it since her time as an active agent. Gibbs' frown was readily apparent by then, but his usual imposing ire put a smile on her face just as well.

"Jorim Betancourt. Israeli mother, American father, product of an illicit and much-publicized affair," Ziva started, leading with his picture. "Only heir to the family business. Taken away from his mother at nine years old to live with his father in the US."

"I'm sure he had an awesome time with that," Bishop muttered.

"Inherits the company in the 1990s. Builds it up and takes it public," McGee continued. "In 2013, he starts making more and more frequent trips to Israel. It's when we think he started the vigilante operation."

McGee was offered the clicker back from Ziva without prompting. He appreciated the return to old routines with a smile. He quickly pulled up a map. "They source mercenaries and guns-for-hire all over the world."

"Using existing conflicts like the Syrian war," Ziva added.

"But as far as we know, operations and commissions are restricted to the US."

Torres scoffed. "Guess even hitmen follow trade routes."

"Betancourt runs it like any global company," McGee explained as he zoomed in on different regions on the US portion of the map. "You have contact points with judges like Deakin who bring the cases. Then regional hubs form around them. You have communication specialists whose job it is to acquire new customers; asset managers who deal with the money transfer; suppliers, handlers and, of course, a squad of hitmen."

Gibbs stepped closer to the map, whose intersecting lines must have far exceeded his wildest ideas. "How'd Mossad pull all this together?"

"A mercenary talked." He arched an eyebrow at 'talked' and Ziva could only shrug. "They went from there. But they have no jurisdiction in the States."

"So what's his motive?", Bishop asked. "Betancourt's. Why do this?"

"Some idea of Judgment Day maybe?", Torres wagered. "Playing with money?"

Ziva shook her head slowly. "His daughter." Her response garnered her surprised looks. "Rachel. When she was ten, she was run over on her way home from school by a business man named Jax Hutton. She died from her injuries but the case never went to court. Hutton's lawyers got it thrown out on a technicality during evidence processing."

"Sounds to me your man has some deep-seated beef with the American justice system. And the means to act out his grief on a massive scale." Jack appeared in the bullpen, sporting a look of intense fascination. "He's built an ideology around grief and justice."

"Like a cult," Ellie surmised.

"Kind of. Same personality structure," Jack confirmed. "He's charismatic, isn't he? People will describe him as magnetic, larger than life?" She was addressing Ziva directly and received a nod of confirmation.

She then pointed a prophetic finger at the screen where Betancourt's picture had remained lodged in the uppermost corner, like an ominous shadow. "He's the kind of guy who lives his life outside the system as we know and have accepted it. He made his own rules. There's no reasoning with him. In his view of the world, his way is justice. There's no second way."

"Why does Jax Hutton sound familiar, though?", Torres asked. "I'm getting some sailing vibes? Car racing?"

"Speedboat," McGee replied, flipping through multiple news clips about a fatal accident. "He died in a speedboat accident on holiday in the Mediterranean. 2013."

"That'll do it."

"You won't get Betancourt," Jack predicted, now looking directly at Gibbs.

Gibbs' understanding nod was a long time coming, then he whirled back around to peer at the map. He jabbed a finger directly at the circle around Washington, DC. "Take out the hubs, take out the operation."

"Isn't that a notch too big for us?", Torres cautioned.

"Any system's strength is also its greatest weakness," Jack reasoned. "We just need to find the right lever."

"There's probably a key. Like an algorithm," McGee mused, dragging a laser dot across the lines of the network. "With a system this large, you have to standardize things."

"But we need to figure out the cases first," Bishop continued. "Whose cases did they even take on? See if we can establish timelines, connections. Then standards and patterns."

McGee nodded, grabbing a thick two-inch file from his desk. "We have the names of a few suppliers, some handlers. Mossad gave us a head start, but it's still all Swiss Cheese."

"With an operation like this, none of the individual people will know much. Not beyond their own involvement," Jack said. "So the question is how far we need to work ourselves up. The judges?"

"And the lieutenants," Ziva added. "Every hub has its own regional manager. Where the lines connect."

Ziva held out her hand expectantly and McGee dropped the clicked in it. She pulled up the service ID of a woman in her mid-to-late thirties, dark hair, dark eyes, wearing a Marine uniform with the rank of Gunnery Sargent. She watched Gibbs closely as his eyes grew just a little wider.

"Bliths Dillion," Ziva identified her.

Jack, who had followed Ziva's eyeline, fixed Gibbs with suspicion. "You know her?"

Gibbs nodded. "Had beers with her two, three weeks ago?"

"Because?"

"Sister was shot in 2016."

"And Gibbs continued investigating vigilante cases involving Navy personnel," Ziva filled in the blanks. She didn't do it to expose Gibbs in front of the team, but they needed to know. She expected that he wouldn't relay any of that information without being asked the right questions.

"I read about this," Bishop added, gathering together a few sheets from the files stacked on her desk. "Both sisters were Marines, multiple tours in Afghanistan each. Bliths is working in customer services now, sister Bethany killed in an armed robbery in 2016. The man accused of killing her was released a year later, found not guilty. He was shot dead a few months after that here in Washington. Case was never closed."

"That's convenient." Torres frowned. "So what? Dillion just got in on the fun?"

Ziva nodded. "It looks like she got suspicious when you met with her, Gibbs."

"Probably recognized the crew cut," Torres mumbled, but earned himself a glare nonetheless.

"She has the connections to report it up the ranks," Ziva continued, unabated. "Mossad flagged Gibbs' name on a red list they intercepted."

Gibbs didn't take more than a moment to take it all in, then grabbed the black notebook from his desk and shoved it into McGee's hands. "Start with this."

"I want to talk to Dillion," Ziva countered. She didn't budge from her stance, halfway between the two MCRT leads, and McGee had to arch around her to receive the leather-bound item.

"We do this right," Gibbs shot her down flatly. "We build it up."

"I just want to talk to her," Ziva insisted.

"Start at the bottom," Gibbs ordered, meaning everyone else. The team dispersed on command, taking up their positions at their desks. Gibbs' eyes were still fixed on Ziva. She remained firm and equally unblinking, staring back at him. "Stay out of her way, Ziva."

"I will do nothing of the sort."

"Gibbs," Jack cut in. "If she put the target on your back. What's the harm?"

Ziva nodded, appreciating Jack's support. "Except speed up the process."

"Dillion is playing a high-stakes game. You could bait her," Jack added.

But Gibbs ignored them both. "We play by the book. That's an order."

"You are not my—"

"But _you_—" Gibbs stepped closer to her, his face now towering over hers. "Are a consultant, Ziva. You stay down. No mandate, no weapon."

Ziva's eyes flashed dangerously. A moment passed, then another. "As you wish, Gibbs," she conceded, mimicking his flat tone and taking a step back.

Gibbs remained, still at attention, until Ziva had returned to her place by McGee's desk. Keeping well out of the argument at hand, McGee had rebooted one of his laptops. His lips pressed into a well-meaning line, he now handed it to her and quickly explained its use. Ziva received it with a tight, if grateful, smile.

Despite Jack still staring at him, studying him even, Gibbs stalked past her and left. He never showed again that evening. Around four, McGee announced that they still had to do a grocery run on their way home. But Ziva declined, citing another stop on her way. She got Torres to promise he would find Gibbs, and that he make sure to find him a ride home.

* * *

When the elevator doors opened to reveal the dark blue hues of the sub-basement hallway, Ziva felt its familiar chill prickle her skin. She hadn't taken more than two steps when Ducky almost crashed into her. He looked considerably older, more weary than she had imprinted him in her memory. A smile broke on Ziva's face as he took a step back, apologizing. For a moment ever so brief and aching, Ziva contemplated offering an embrace, even a kiss on the cheek, but quickly thought better of it. Ducky made no move to invite her in.

He placed his hands lightly on her shoulders, almost as if steadying himself, and looked up at her. "Gibbs relayed the happy news this morning," he stated, his smile ever so professionally courteous. "Welcome back, my dear."

"Thank you, Ducky," Ziva responded quietly.

"You must excuse me now," he continued, hurry in his tone. "Old age imposes a considerably slower pace when getting ready for an evening out."

He stepped into the elevator and was gone. The doors drifted shut behind him and left Ziva with an empty feeling — a feeling she had expected but not experienced so far in her former place of abode. Ducky had always been a kind confidant, keeper of truths and secrets, trader of pains and sorrows. He had examined her upon her return from Somalia, had set her broken bones, washed the caked blood off her wounds, and the grime from her limbs to reveal her bruises. He had been the one to refer her to a therapist, a specialist in trauma and rape cases; had personally driven her back there one day when her demons had been too much to bear even in bright daylight. He was the only one who knew when no one could know, because it would take another therapist in another country to get her all the way there. All that weight, all those memories, they lay faded between them in an empty hallway. Some disappointments — her own making — would likely take years to mend.

"Ziva!", Jimmy's voice quickly recalled her.

He had appeared in the doorway to the autopsy room. His arms were stretched so wide he looked like he was pushing the sliding doors apart with the sheer might of his glee. As though he had witnessed and aplty assessed her encounter with the retired M.E., he waved her forward. It wouldn't have surprised her in the least if he had. A bright grin returned to her face as Jimmy ushered her into his embrace under the impressing hum of a sigh.

"I see you have taken command of the kingdom," Ziva quipped, still lingering a moment longer before they pulled apart. Jimmy offered her a chair and they hunched over one of the autopsy tables, facing one another just like old times.

"I have," he confirmed, the excitement in his voice yet to abate. He drew a half-circle the radius of his outstretched arm, his eyes glimmering brightly. "Dr. Mallard has been appointed NCIS' official historian."

Ziva nodded. "Has he?"

She surveyed the room again. It hadn't changed much on the surface, but she could detect the little touches and flares of Jimmy that altered the room's overall feel: a child's drawing on the desk had been wedged into a frame decorated with brightly colored shells and crumpled knots of paper; the coffer holding autopsy instruments was a yellow-white checkered pattern; and the files stacked on the desk all had different colors, if muted for decorum, and assorted braided strings for bookmarks. Jimmy was eyeing her quizzically over the rim of his glasses, a smile dancing on his lips.

"What?", Ziva asked, playfully narrowing her eyes at him.

"I can't believe it's really you. I really, really missed you, Ziva," Jimmy confessed and reached out, taking a hold of her hand.

"It's been a little overwhelming to make all of these re-introductions, to be honest," Ziva admitted.

"Years ago you might've forgone them altogether," he observed. His eyes danced over the rim of his glasses

"Yes." She nodded firmly. "It is strange. But much better than what I had dared imagine."

"It's still you, then," he said, chuckling a little. "Always preparing with the worst-case scenario."

"Old habits die hard. Even as things change." Ziva jotted a pointed finger at the child's drawing.

"Ah yes!" He retrieved his wallet from the desk and slipped two fingers delicately into one of the outer folds. Six, 2x2 inch pictures fluttered onto the table between them. She couldn't hold back a giggle. "This is Victoria," he announced, waving his hand over the heap. "All of them."

Ziva picked them up one by one, carefully browsing through them. Three were of Victoria — brown-haired, tall and bispectacled — on her own, running and reading and singing; two of Victoria and Breena in high-backed movie chairs; one of the three of them together, peering out from the visitors' booth at a science museum.

"Such a happy little girl," Ziva observed, going back over some of them a second and third time. "She has your smile, Jimmy."

"She does, doesn't she?", he said, his own doubling in size. He grabbed one, then two of the pictures as if to confirm his own observation. "She really comes after my side of the family. It's quite uncanny. She will say something behind you and suddenly I'm thinking, wow, Great Uncle Berry-Dan is back from the dead."

Ziva laughed. "She likes reading, I gather?"

"She does," he confirmed. "And video games and scavanger hunts. And the other day Breena and her came back from the anatomy museum and she decided to become a robotics engineer— I'm sorry." He offered her a bashful smile.

"You may gush about your daughter all you want," she insisted, jabbing a playful finger against his shoulder.

"They deserve to be gushed over, don't they?"

"Oh yes." Ziva nodded firmly. "She is— What? Four?"

"Four and a half, almost."

A pause extended between them like an arena of moments they could have filled with memories of their daughters together, so close in age. He returned the pictures to their rightful place, so diligently, one after the other.

"Tali just turned five," Ziva said quietly, watching his hands more than his face. "I have no pictures to share, sadly."

"But you have you seen her? You know since..." He looked up at her, smile dimmed. "Please tell me you've seen her since."

"I have seen her since," Ziva assured him. She thought about the right term to use, then settled on the most factual approach. "Since the fire I have seen her. Yes."

She could see the sigh of relief that passed through Jimmy's body and suddenly felt a wave of gratitude for her friend. "From what I could tell, she's a precocious one," he remarked, eyebrows rising knowingly.

Ziva chuckled. "She is. Very much like her father in that respect."

"And her mother," Jimmy corrected her. "When I saw her, she was just a day off a plane from Israel. And she was running around, playing catch with Tony. Laughing. Singing. Making fun of his feeding techniques."

Ziva responded with a quiet "Mmm," eyes dropping. He dipped his head closer to her, tilting it a little to the side. "You instilled that in her."

She looked up at him then. "Tony told me how much you helped him with Tali in the beginning," she said softly. "I wanted to thank you—"

Jimmy held up a hand. "That's what oysters are for."

The reference drove a smile to Ziva's face again. She returned his gesture from earlier, placing a hand on top of his. "Still. It meant a lot to us."

He accepted her gratitude with a small nod but continued to study her face. "So how are you, Ziva?", he asked solemnly.

She took a second to weigh her emotions. "Happier," she replied confidently.

"You look it," he confirmed and she believed him. "I'm sure the last three years couldn't have been easy."

Ziva shook her head. "Certainly not," she admitted. "But Tali has changed things. Tony… Has changed things. Being certain of that kind of love—"

"It gets to be about more than just survival," Jimmy finished for her, understanding.

* * *

Ziva found the townhouse on her third turn around the block, finding her navigational skills tested by refusing to have mobile data track her every move and McGee's overly detailed text message. The house wasn't quite what she had expected. Then again, her expectations were six years outdated. She parked by the curb in a picturesque cul-de-sac with grandiose houses framing the McGees', neatly tended front lawns, and high-rising hedges offering but glimpses at slides and jungle gyms.

The details that caught her attention felt so simple and forgettable: like the rosebush in the garden next door with only one side trimmed, the one facing the street, and the other growing wild; the abandoned football amid shards of broken glass under the streetlight across the way; or the kite tangled in the branches of a tall cherry tree three houses down. Ringing the doorbell, Ziva could only imagine the stories that had occurred and left their traces; the gardening compromise of marriage, wayward kicks, and disappointed feats on wind-swept afternoons.

Her second ring finally received an answer and the door opened to a pastel-colored foyer and a woman Ziva recognized from the pictures on McGee's desk. Delilah welcomed her with a large grin on her face and a toddler in her lap.

"Ziva! The guest of honor," she greeted her, inviting her in with a big show of hands. Soft music was playing in the background. "I'm so thrilled we get to meet you at last."

Ziva bent down and reciprocated the hug Delilah's outstretched and oddly angled arms were clearly implying. They started off on a laugh when Ziva's hair was immediately captured by a baby fist under the mischievous impression of giggles.

"Ziva, this is John," Delilah introduced them, then turned to her son, "Can you say hi, John? Hi, Auntie Ziva?"

If she was honest with herself, truly honest, Ziva had never gotten much of a chance to entertain the thought of being anyone's Auntie. So she had refrained from spending much thought on it at all. She had imagined lives for her siblings had either of them — or, by some unsung miracle, _both_ of them — lived to ripe old age. Or longer, at the very least. And of course she had. She had imagined countless lives for them, had pictured old dreams coming into being, and dreamt up new ones in their stead. And yes, children had been part of it. But these imaginings had been about _them_, about their lost happiness, and not about what it would have meant for _her_, Ziva. Other than still being someone's sister today.

Ziva felt sincerely touched to be referred to as "Auntie," and Delilah could not even tell just how much that little throwaway title meant to her.

John reached up a hand in a confident wave, followed by an equally confident "Hi!" and a less confident "Ee-aa!"

Ziva crouched down and returned his wave. "Hi, John. Very nice to meet you," she greeted with a large, showy grin. "How are you doing?"

His fist instantly moved in for Ziva's wavy curls once again. Delilah made a move to stop him, but Ziva beat her to it, gently catching the toddler's hand in hers and shaking it. With the other John patted her cheek. "Now John, how old are you?", she asked.

"Eighteen months," Delilah replied. "The other one is helping daddy in the kitchen and— Oh, nevermind. Here comes Morgan!"

Dressed in the same green jumpsuit as her brother and with dark hair matching his, Morgan came barreling out of the kitchen. She was brandishing a long spoon-like implement like a lance in the critical moments of a jousting match.

"Tim, do you need that ladle?", Delilah called back into the kitchen as Morgan merrily crashed into her legs.

McGee appeared around the doorframe, still in slacks but his dress shirt rolled up at the sleeves and a napkin slung over his shoulder. "No, babe. She wanted mine, I gave her the spare," he assured her. "Oh hi, Ziva!" He quickly stepped into her embrace, then pointed at the bag in her hand. "For us?"

"Yes," she confirmed. "I forgot to ask what you're making, so I got one of each. The man advising me at the liquor store turned out to have quite the sharp opinion on wine, so I'm a bit late."

"And there I thought Jimmy just kept you longer." He took the bottles from her with a knowing smirk. "Thank you, though, they'll be perfect. And no worries," he waved her off, "We had a little accident when I got home and I started maybe twenty minutes ago, half an hour? It'll be a while."

"But we're getting Tim's signature lasagna, so it's worth the wait," Delilah added, already leading Ziva over to the couch and coffee table now that they had been abandoned by the twins.

Once reunited, John and Morgan had become much more interested in the play corner on one side of the living room. Partitioned off with a carpet whose space-suited characters Ziva could not place, the area was decked out with all sorts of toy chests and books, two walls high, colors aplenty.

Ziva accepted a glass of water with a grateful smile. "I was just admiring the street you're living on, coming in," she remarked, feeling oddly light to start off with something small and casual. It felt like weeks since her last inconsequential conversation. It probably was, too.

"Thank you. It was quite the search, let me tell you," Delilah responded and dropped her voice as if retelling a mystery story. "It's hard to find a house where it's all laid out on one floor and you don't have to pay double for all the renovations you need to do to make it wheelchair accessible."

"I'm sure," Ziva mused, letting her eyes roam. "Tony found a beautiful little two-story semi-detached on the outskirts of Paris for Tali and himself. Not too far from the next station into the city." Turning back, she found Delilah staring at her, eyes wide. "Did I say something?"

"Um no? I mean, so… We can talk about this? Just like that? That's alright?", Delilah checked. "Like, if I asked you how Tony was, you would say?"

Ziva's features relaxed. She uncrossed her legs and slipped forward, leaning in closer. "That he's fine," she confirmed, smiling. "Parenting Tali, who is practically him in a miniature body. It's really quite frightening sometimes."

The lighthearted nonchalance in Ziva's voice visibly put Delilah at ease. "I'm so glad to hear that, you can't imagine," she said, sounding out a sigh. "I mean, Tim calls him every so often, right? But they don't actually _talk._ I've tried coaching him. A little roleplay line-reading here and there. But it's a little hopeless, to be honest. And Tony's really the only one where he just tunes out a bit."

"They have always had more of a—", Ziva searched for the right word, "A nudge-nudge relationship."

"I honestly think they'd get along better now. Just being co-dads and not co-workers, if you ask me," Delilah offered, scoffing lightly.

Ziva smiled. "Agreed." Thinking on it a little longer, she added, "Tony has settled in himself. He is... Happy. I cannot think of a better way to—"

"Content?"

"Yes, yes," she agreed, musing. "Seeing him with Tali in this Parisian quarter that looks like right out of one of his movies. Like _Amélie_. And Tony is Gene Kelly." Ziva stopped herself, smiling at Delilah's playful smirk. "In any case, M'Gee and Tony, now they wouldn't have to be—"

"Brothers vying for dad's attention?", Delilah joked. They both laughed out loud.

"Yes. Definitely."

"So wait," Delilah started again. "Did you say Tony and Tali were living in the semi-detached? Where do you live, then?"

Ziva's lips quickly set in a more restrained line. "I live in an apartment in Paris proper. Family property. Tali goes to preschool just one arrondissement over," she explained. The lightness in her voice had dimmed, Delilah's brow furrowed.

"You're not living with Tony right now? Or your daughter?"

"Not right now, no."

"But you did before—"

"Not for three years," Ziva clarified. "It's just easier to operate out of a separate apartment. And I am gone a lot. Sometimes I only come back for a few days. I visit them. Stay for a few days at a time. Sometimes a little longer."

Something bumped into Ziva's leg. Looking down, it turned out to be a little mischievous someone, who had clearly taken an interest in her. John dropped a book onto Ziva knees, pushing to be picked up. "Hi there," she cooed, lifting him into her lap. He wiggled into place, got comfortable.

"What've you got there?", she asked, reaching around him with both hands, holding the book up in front of them. "A picture book?"

He threw his head up and down, mimicking her exclamation in a shower of gurgles, and started swiping through the pages with a sure hand. "Sun," he proclaimed, planting a starfished hand onto the appropriate image.

Ziva nodded, praising him. "That's right, little one. Good job. Kol hakavod."

He flipped to another page, repeating the pattern, and another, and another. Without fail, Ziva expressed her praises or read the word out loud when prompted by an agitated grunt of "Wha' dat?"

"When Tali was your age, she also wanted to read and read and read all the time," Ziva remembered, talking to him in a low, sweet voice. "She was driving me a little nuts, to be honest."

"Did you read in Hebrew?", Delilah asked, giggling a little, as she lifted Morgan into her lap. The little girl was happily entertaining herself with a large multi-colored cube, examining it with hands, feet and mouth.

"I did, for the most part. Everything around her was Hebrew and at that time I expected us to stay there," Ziva nodded, almost absently. "What is that?", she asked John, her voice rising in pitch. He stumbled a little on the assortment of arborescent forms on the next page, but with a little more coaxing proclaimed a satisfied "Dee!", then quickly moved on.

"But I read to her in English as well. With the different scripts, it's a little harder to do. But I wanted her to get used to it early-on," Ziva continued, still turning the pages for the little boy in her lap. "We visited English theaters in the city when they had an appropriate show. We sang all sorts of songs. She watched a little tv. Tali was perfectly capable of using Hebrew and English when she met Tony."

Morgan joyfully shaped Delilah's palms into a little cup, then proceeded to drop her cube into them, picked it back up, dropped it again, and again and again. "Then Tim must've been wrong about this," Delilah mused. "I thought he mentioned that Tony was having some trouble talking to Tali."

"Oh, he was. It was as if she didn't know a word of English," Ziva said, feeling her own words acutely. "Her doctor called it 'trauma-induced regression'."

"Her speech reverted," Delilah deduced, a shared pain in her voice.

Ziva nodded. "The doctors weren't sure exactly themselves, to be honest. Maybe she understood Tony but couldn't verbalize?", she explained. "Tali's mind just shut down. Between losing me, losing her home, being surrounded by strangers and moving around all the time. It was all just too much. So she fell back on what was most natural to her. Which was Hebrew."

"I mean, it makes sense, doesn't it?", Delilah offered, grimacing. "Gosh, the poor little girl."

"We really did not make it easy for her," Ziva sighed, sharing a small smile with Delilah. "By the time I could meet up with them, Tony had started using the playback function on Google Translate and was repeating the words."

Delilah tossed her head back, impressed. "That's brilliant."

Ziva laughed. "It was ingenious, actually. It helped so much in the beginning. We would make a game out of it. Tony called it 'talking to R2D2.' Tali started to love it, going between all the languages."

"So she's bilingual?"

"Trilingual," Ziva clarified, easily obliging with information when it came to her daughter. "She goes to an English-French preschool. I talk and read to her in Hebrew when I'm home."

By rocking himself backwards against Ziva's chest, John pointedly reclaimed her attention. She laughed at the toddler's antics. "Yes, I'm still here, little one," she assured him. Grumbling with discontent, he shuffled forward on his bum and she understood, swiftly setting him back on the ground.

He tested his footing for a moment then, satisfied, trotted over to a stack of books that were neatly assorted on a toddler-sized shelf. He inspected them with furrowed brow, then started to drop, by some hidden measure, unappealing ones in an unceremonious pile on the floor. Morgan, having followed John closely with her eyes, prompted Delilah with a "Mama, down!" and then was quick to join her brother. A few gurgles passed between them and soon they were merrily dumping books on the floor in concert.

"They're their own best friends, aren't they?", Ziva concluded, smiling.

"Not sure they have a concept for friendship. But they sure team up against Tim and me a lot." Delilah laughed. "Would you and Tony—"

"Have another child?", Ziva finished for her, already shaking her head. "No, I don't think that is an option. Not given our situation the past three years."

"You still could if you wanted to?", Delilah suggested, then quickly took a hint from the way Ziva's jaw clenched. "I mean, you could, in theory. I didn't mean to—"

"No, you're fine," Ziva assured her, offering a thin-lipped smile. "It's just that my pregnancy with Tali wasn't easy. I sustained a lot of scarring when I was held captive in Somalia." The words tumbled out of her mouth as matter-of-fact.

"Right. Of course."

Delilah made no further inquiry and Ziva assumed that McGee had shared the gist of her story. "I would love for Tali to have a sibling," Ziva continued, the thought getting the better of her. "I loved having siblings growing up."

Delilah watched Ziva's eyes grow distant again as she focused back on the twins. Morgan had apparently decided to abandon their task and had plopped onto her bottom, opening a 3D picture book. She tugged on John's sleeve long enough for him to notice and follow suit. Side by side, they began recounting stories in a language none of the grown-ups could ever hope to understand.

"You miss your little girl, don't you?"

Ziva laughed, rightly caught off-guard. She turned to look at Delilah and shook her head in silent disbelief, having long ago recognized that in all her history with pain she could still find, in the ache of yearning for her child, a new personal limit.

"Only all of the time."

"When did you last see her?", Delilah asked.

"We celebrated her birthday together," Ziva reminded herself. It seemed so long ago now. "But I had been gone for weeks before that. And left right the next day."

After Be'er Sheva she could never leave with Tali sleeping or unaware. Her little girl would have never forgiven her. It also reminded Ziva too much of singing her toddler to sleep in the strange surroundings of Orli's apartment, then abandoning her while knowing full well that the two-year-old had not grasped the concept of her mother leaving despite Ziva's best efforts to explain. So, now Ziva left, each and every time, amid tears and hugs and promises; Tony always close by to hold their little girl and soothe the pain, whether she was sobbing or screaming or both. The echoes of "Ima, please!" would cling to Ziva all of the way, no matter where she was going. But Tali had to see her, had to get a chance to say goodbye and hear her mother's promise that she would be back for her.

McGee appeared in the doorframe of the kitchen, rousing their attention. "If you set the table, dinner will be ready in ten minutes." His voice thinned out on the last few syllables, however, when he recognized on their faces the kind of conversation he had just interrupted. "Or I can—"

"No, I'll get it." Ziva was already getting up.

"You're our guest—"

"Oh, don't be ridiculous." She waved Delilah off. "I'm happy to help."

Dinner conversation remained light, mainly by courtesy of two not-yet two-year-olds commanding all of their attention. Between Morgan and John trying to one-up each another on their skills of feeding themselves, and both McGee and Delilah trying to salvage some of the food, Ziva had found herself the kind of perfectly innocent dinner entertainment she had so craved that evening.

"It gets easier, I promise," Ziva offered, sage advice from someone in the know.

McGee looked skeptical, wiping bits of meatball off Morgan's neck. But remembering Tali's birthday and a particular moment of her feeding velvet cake to Tony, missing (not on purpose!), and then spreading it all over his beard and face, Ziva knew for a fact that tables could turn.

McGee gently shot down Ziva's repeated offer to help with the dishes and maneuvered her towards the back patio with a gratuitous refill. The backyard was just as well tended-to as front and interior had suggested. Ziva wondered whether they had taken to gardening or just hired someone. The flower beds looked keenly balanced between wilting harbingers of spring and early summer bloom. Low hedges marked off a little picnic area and a toddler-sized slide. Gazing out upon a scene of pristine family life, Ziva rocked herself back and forth on the porch swing, listening silently to dishes and glasses clanging. And later even, she paid wittness to the soft undertones of their evening rituals, squeals and solicitations alike. Like a lullaby, it sank her deep into thought and memory. It wasn't until McGee waved a bottle in front of her face that she snapped back to the present.

"I don't drink—"

"I noticed," he said, sitting down beside her. "It's just tonic."

She nodded her thanks, absently removing the already-loose cap. They cheered, glass clinking, and she peered up at him as if expecting his question.

"I didn't ask."

Ziva shrugged. "I stopped when I was pregnant with Tali. I never found a reason to start again." They both took a first swig, now rocking back and forth in unison. "Delilah joining us?"

"Nah. She's getting ready for bed. Long day," he replied and the truth remained unsaid. It was their time to talk, finally.

The air had cooled considerably in the time she had been out here and Ziva drew her feet up, curling into herself. Without a word, McGee grabbed a blanket from a basked by the swing and covered them both with a flick of his hand. Ziva tucked the ends in on her side and pulled her knees even tighter into her chest. The gentle rocking, now McGee's doing, continued. Darkness was slowly settling around them and two glimmering porch lights sprang to life on either side of the banister. Little dots of light illuminated flower beds and picnic area, a siren-call to all sorts of winged creatures soon buzzing about.

"I'm really glad you haven't been on the run all by yourself for three years," he remarked at once. It was a genuine sentiment, but it was still odd-sounding, such a strange casual observation. What even were their lives, sometimes?

Ziva gave a short laugh. "Me too."

The thought had crossed her mind many times, of course. It had also crossed her mind that it might have been the more prudent of choices, less turmoil for her little girl, to just stay away. But as hard as it was to leave, she didn't dare imagine the pain of all privation.

"Tony wanted to go to Israel first when he left."

McGee was slowly edging them into a conversation he had clearly been waiting to have. Ziva reciprocated gladly.

"He did. First to Tel Aviv, then Be'er Sheva," she confirmed. "I could only point him in the right direction. Orli had all the information. It was she who told him where to meet me in Paris; who told him to wait for me to make contact."

"Staying put isn't his strong suit," McGee quipped.

"Tony was..." Ziva chuckled a little to herself. In hindsight, the many times he had evaded their Mossad observation team while lugging around a two-year-old in a carrier or a stroller was certainly a story best enjoyed for all posterity. "He was giving them a run for their money, yes?"

McGee nodded. "I thought maybe he was imagining things, you know? Seeing what he wanted to see."

"He was," Ziva countered. "And I was very lucky that he did. I couldn't be sure after— Well, after everything." He nodded but remained silent, just looking on ahead. He had always given her space, a time to fill the space with whatever she chose to divulge. But the crickets, she realized, could make rather noisy nightly companions.

She took a deep breath, straightening her shoulders. "You can ask, you know."

"You had a baby, Ziva," he blurted out, as if sharing a sensational secret with her. His eyes were wide and all in her face, a smile dancing on his lips.

Ziva laughed along. "I did. I know," she confirmed needlessly.

"Have you told him? Tony?", he checked, voice softening. "Have you told him why you kept Tali a secret?"

Ziva nodded. "He knows. And he's forgiven me."

He returned the gesture in kind. "Whenever, if ever, you want to tell me. I'm here." She kept her head down but quirked her shoulder, just slightly, to bump against his. He was still smiling but his face quickly sobered. "When Delilah— I mean, I can't imagine what it must've been like."

She didn't know what had happened with Delilah, and she didn't dare ask. But the kind of fear in McGee's eyes she knew to recognize and she heaved a sigh. "I never wanted to be alone through all of it. I had Shmeil and Orli, of course." The wind around them was picking up. The breeze hit her face, offering an anchor. "I almost lost Tali twice during my pregnancy. Both times Orli was there with me. It was she who took me to the hospital; she who staid with me through the night. But it should have been Tony."

"Would he have come, d'you think? If you'd told him?", McGee asked, sounding truly curious.

It was funny to Ziva how that had been the second time in two days that someone had raised their doubts about Tony's true feeling and capabilities. It had never been a question for her.

"Of course he would have come," she insisted, leaving no doubt for McGee. Of this she had always been sure, because knowing it to be true had played no small part in her inability to tell him. "At the time I didn't think I deserved that."

"So what changed?"

"I realized Tali did."

She wasn't entirely sure how genetics worked in that way, but Tali had always had an uncanny ability to do things Tony's way, move like him, smile like him. Maybe it had always been Ziva, projecting her conscience onto their little girl, but it had become ever more real in its consequences.

"I was finally ready to tell him when the attack happened," she said then. "I called Abby to ask about him actually. Get a sense."

"You did?", McGee gaped, surprise arching his brow. "She never said."

"She was very angry with me. And rightly so," Ziva recalled. "I had misjudged the situation, to be honest. It was a strange call. Short. Abby yelled at me. Said Tony was unhappy and lonely and that it was all my fault. She had always been— I don't know. I think I disappointed her one too many times."

"Don't say that—"

"It's fine," Ziva contended.

"She'll forgive you, you'll see," he assured her. "Once you give her your reasons. She couldn't stop crying, well, when we got the news. It haunted her until she left NCIS."

Ziva nodded again, eyes downcast. She wondered whether a simple phone call would even be enough to mend that relationship, whether Abby's powers of forgiveness extended that far.

"She was the first to whom I admitted that I loved him," she continued, remembering Abby's heavy pause, how quickly they had then ended the call. "I told her that none of it had been my intention— Which is true, for the record."

"I already thought so."

"I was much better by then. More stable. Tali and I had a routine. She was growing up beautifully." She smiled, remembrance clearing her features. "I had gotten help. I had to stop breastfeeding and went on medication. It worked for me," she admitted, adding lightly, "Maybe another reason I do not drink."

McGee returned her smile and she took another sip of the bottle, realizing she had barely touched it yet. "I'm really, really happy for you, Ziva," he said and his genuineness almost drove tears into her eyes.

"Thank you," she said. "I guess, it just took me a long time to bring the pieces of my life into line."

What she felt and what she wanted, what she needed and what she had to do — it had always felt more disparate than it did now, finally. She was glad for McGee's nod, glad for his understanding. But she could see his features dim, his mind moving on to other things, as it always had and she had observed countless times, his beautiful mind, from across the bullpen year in and year out.

"Tony didn't really talk about that time he went to find you in Israel. You know, when, well—"

"Tali was conceived?" Ziva laughed, catching his drift.

"Yeah, that." He smiled. "But I knew you weren't okay, that much was clear. I didn't— I mean, I knew and I could've just called. But I didn't know if you'd even want to talk to me."

Ziva shrugged. "I don't know. I probably did not."

"Yeah, but I think I was— I don't know. Disappointed?", he tried vaguely. "I thought nothing ever had to change and then you left. And I know that wasn't fair of me. You left to take care of yourself. That's a really brave thing to do. I— I don't know. I feel like I dropped the ball with the whole Bodnar case and I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Ziva. I'm sorry I didn't get it sooner and called you anyway."

He had clearly been thinking a lot and deeply about that time six year ago, about what to say to her. It honored her to know that. Now that she hadn't died and things didn't need to stay unsaid, it came loose all at once. Ziva didn't quite have the words to respond at that moment. Instead, she grabbed a hold of his hand and put in it all of her.

He dapped at his eyes, wiping away unshed tears. "So keep filling in the blanks here. Orli sent Tony off to Paris?", he encouraged her with a smile.

"Yes. And when we deemed it safe, I met up with them," Ziva continued. "We staid there a while. After Tony had settled his affairs here, he moved them further out. I speak French, Tony learned. And Tali adapted. She always does."

McGee watched a smile light up Ziva's face. "She looks just like you," he remarked, brightening her features even more.

"You think?" The question tumbled out and she tried to retain the light in her voice no matter how far back in her throat it started. "There's so much of Tony—"

"In her eyes. But everything else, it was uncanny," he confirmed, nodding. "Like a copy of you."

"She's grown out her hair. Apparently it feels better that way," Ziva said, mimicking her five-year-old's clear sense of herself and chuckling. "And she's so big now. She's growing by the minute, it feels like."

Ziva was resting her hands on her knees and he reached over, squeezing her wrist. "I'm sorry you don't get to be there every second of every day."

She nodded. "Me too."

"You know," he started, deep in thought. "You didn't have to come back."

"It's Gibbs, McGee," she countered. "Of course I had to come back."

"But Tali—"

"I have managed much more dangerous missions since I had her," Ziva scoffed. Her offhand response surprising even herself. McGee looked at her with a confused frown. "I'm in less danger now, being around all of you."

McGee tossed his head to the side, clearly skeptical. "I really hope that's true."

"You sound worried." Her eyes narrowed and she turned on her side, leaning over the back of porch swing.

"Well, with Delilah— I mean, she's amazing. She's incredible," he said quickly. "But I've thought about leaving NCIS more since we had the twins than ever before. I want to be there to support her. Be the father my own dad never was, you know? I just can't see myself doing Gibbs' job and being that."

Ziva nodded. "I understand."

"I thought you might," he said, giving her a small smile. "Anyway, something for Future Tim to decide, right?"

He tried to make light of it, but once again it sounded to Ziva as though his words had been carefully considered and rehearsed many, many times before. She leaned over, locking eyes with him.

"If you ask me, Future Tim should make the decision that feels right to him," Ziva encouraged him, hand on his shoulder. "There is more than one way to honor family obligations."

* * *

Chapter 3: **[Eleanor]** \- Chapter 4: [Ziva] - Chapter 5: [Tali] - Chapter 6: [Epilogue]


	3. Eleanor

** **Eleanor**: Crossing **

Before long, her first day had turned into a week, had turned into two weeks. They weren't much closer to Betancourt, nor any of his lieutenants. Diligently they assembled the pieces of the puzzle every day, every morning anew, everything by the book. Since Gibbs would not allow Ziva in the field for even the most inconsequential interview, Bishop and Torres were pulling the weight of the investigation. And Ziva staid behind. Staying behind, she learned, meant helping McGee map the case so they could start predicting a pattern that might feasibly damage the entire vigilante operation. Staying behind meant paperwork, hours on end at the office, behind a computer, under the lights, stale air, tired glances, stay-down orders. But they were still miles from a big break. For all her years in service, staying behind and missing the break was not, to say the least, Ziva's favorite manner of working.

But emotions were fickle creatues and they often scurried in odd directions. It felt comfortable as well, so easy, so unscrupulously pleasant, to be working as a team again. She had almost effortlessly slipped into new old habits, had gotten used to lunch routines, engaging in smalltalk with the entrance hall guards, exchanging pleasantries with the coffee vendor, and getting to know the team that had followed her team. Every few evenings she was having dinner with Delilah and McGee or Breena and Jimmy. She went to drinks with Ellie and Kasie, carpooled with Gibbs and frequently went more rounds than necessary with Jack at the gym while Torres, for his part, had appointed himself their tie break.

"I guess I should've worn those shin pads after all," he spit through gritted teeth, wincing when Ziva slapped an ice pack onto the fist-size bruise taking shape on his left leg.

"She told you," Jack reminded him under raised eyebrows as she unwound the bandages on her hands and wrists. "Twice."

Ziva eyed him vaguely. "I'm really—"

"You got some mean blood in you for being all chill the whole time." He stopped her with a small smile, the cold relief visibly smoothing out his features.

Ziva laughed, swallowing her third apology. "I didn't anymore, actually. But I was dropped in the desert for refresher training two years ago."

"Right." He lingered on his reply longer than needed, the painkillers starting to work their magic on his wits and his mind delivering on an image of what that would look like. He hoisted the ice pack higher up on his shin. "Well, for future reference, I'll be wearing all the padding I can get from now on."

Training had always proven a welcome outlet for Ziva's emotions and, as it was, her growing frustrations. But quelling them was a different matter. She might have easily slipped back into the rhythm of relying on teammates, on not being alone, but she had a hard time reintegrating into the hierarchy of it all. Her soldier days were long over. She was still advocating, loudly and whenever she got a chance, for going the direct route and seeking out Bliths Dillion. Dillion remained their only valid lead for catching any of the higher-ups in the operation. But Gibbs was adamant and continued to shut her down.

"You do realize your life is in danger, Gibbs? Yes?", she yelled at him, standing in the foyer of his house. She had never felt more like his partner, much more than a daughter, cooped up as they were in that house together.

"Can't just crawl in a hole and stay there," he growled in return, passing her on his way to the kitchen.

She scoffed. "So your solution is to take off in the middle of the night?"

He shot her a lopsided smile over his shoulder. "I slept on Tobias' couch."

"Can Fornell throw in a protection detail as well?", Ziva called after him. She rolled her eyes, unseen, when he rounded the corner to the basement, vanishing down the steps.

He returned not five seconds later with a backpack. "Get yourself some space to think," he suggested, his voice much softened.

"But—"

"I'll be fine, Ziver," he insisted. "You got here in time."

"But I wouldn't even know where to go."

"Map in the front pouch of the pack." He leaned over and kissed her temple. "Marked you some routes."

Just as the gesture had been intended, two days out camping did have a calming effect on her. But the comforts of connection still came at a dear and unexpected cost. Spending time with McGee's and Jimmy's family, much as she had ever grown in her appreciation for them, made the little holes in her heart always a little bigger and a little more painful around the edges. Even during long stake-out missions on her own she had always found a way to keep her mind occupied and time regimented. Back here, she was so involved, so integrated, so surrounded by love that every time John or Morgan clambered onto her lap or Victoria recounted adventures from preschool, all Ziva wanted, much as she might have tried to focus, was her own little girl — the time and stories she was not being a part of.

Hiding those feelings was impossible. The plates in her armor had no cracks so much as they had shifted apart, revealing broad strips of bare emotion. When Ellie had offered to embark on a lunch trip to her old office, maybe talk to Odette, Ziva had found herself quickly and gladly agreeing.

They had been on the road for a few minutes, Ziva in the passenger seat, when she finally spoke up after yet another left turn way in the wrong direction.

"So, will you tell me where we're going before we get there?"

Ellie's alarm hid behind a bashful smile. "You remember the way, I guess."

Ziva huffed through a smile. "I went down it often enough."

Ellie was slowing the car now and turned into a residential side street. "Morgan gave me their address. Metro PD set them up in a safe house for the time being, but ahe told me to swing by when I got the chance."

With realization Ziva had stilled, her eyes fixed to a point beyond the windshield. In one of the gardens and outside what looked like a small two-bedroom, there was a little girl. She looked smaller than her accounted-for ten years. She was pushing herself halfway forward and halfway back on a swing, shoulder-length hair riding the wafts of the wind but barely. Her feet never hovered more than a few inches above the ground, then touched down again, up, and down again. She looked solemn. Her lips were parting in silent tales, back and forth, and back, and forth.

From what Ziva knew of the case, it seemed obvious to her that Lily just didn't need more than that. Weightlessness was no ambition to her; the ground held all meaning. She remembered herself, after months of captivity, just sitting outside her backyard office every night for weeks, huddled against the wood plank walls and tucked away behind thickets of briars. She too had just sat there until the cold had eaten through her clothes and the outer layer of skin, and had seeped so deep into her body that she had lost all feeling in her fingertips. Just feeling anything at all had meant everything to her.

"Tali?" Ellie's slick and unpracticed tilt bent her little girl's name out of upright shape, no matter her best, most soft-spoken effort.

"Tali," Ziva corrected with accented precision. "Taliah Elizabeth Rivka DiNozzo-David. After my sister, Tony's and my mother. There was never to be any doubt about who's daughter she was."

"That's quite a name." Ellie laughed.

"Grandiose just like her." Ziva joined in with a chuckle of her own, eyes glazing over with memories. "She just loves having it announced when she puts on her shows."

Ellie smiled, Ziva's motherly pride shining brightly. "I never asked when she was born."

"May 2nd, 2014."

"So that's her birthstone then." Ellie waved a hand at the pendant, cast prominently around Ziva's neck.

"Yes." Ziva scooped the necklace up, cupping it in her palm. "Shmeil, a late friend of mine, gave it to me on the day of her blessing. He knew how much such things mean to me."

"It's beautiful."

"So was she." Ziva dropped the chain and smoothed down the gold-lined ember with the flat of her fingers. "Early, too. But she's a fighter."

"Just like her mom, eh?"

"Oh, she is everything like her Abba," Ziva was quick to correct her.

She laughed, rolled her eyes and sighed at the same time. It felt like an apt impression of the fantastical chimera that was her five-year-old's emotional versatility. Maybe it was to be expected when opposites clash, circle and meet, like she and Tony had done after all those years.

"So, a right daddy's girl, then?"

Ziva squinted her eyes at the phrase. "Well, no. No, Tali is definitely her own girl. But I think what it is, she gets to be who Tony always wanted to be had he gotten the chance." She turned, smiling at Ellie with some hesitation. "At least that is how I see her."

"Tony... I don't think I ever really met him..._right_," Ellie mused. "Does that sound weird?"

"Well, how do you mean?"

"He really, really loves you," she stated in a matter-of-fact tone, as if giving the answer. "He was different the way I met him. I heard all these stories where your name never really came up but it was there. Tony would talk about you, of course. And the way he was back then, when you were still here. He was just_..._different, if that makes any sense."

"Tony and I, we've had a… A _complicated_ relationship over the years," Ziva said slowly, laughing with widened eyes at her own choice of words and the circumstances they were meant to describe. "You can't really choose who you fall in love with, I guess. But things are not inevitable. You need to make room."

Ellie nodded, but vaguely. In the garden beyond the windshield Lily had stopped playing and left their sight, probably following her mother's call or that of a more urgent game.

Ziva turned back around. "Ellie, Morgan cannot know."

"I thought it wasn't a secret."

"It's better this way. This was never about me," Ziva maintained. "In fact, it might have never happened if it had not _been_ for me."

"I told her, though," she admitted.

Alarm flittered across Ziva's face. "You—"

"That for all the time you were an NCIS agent, you never gave up on her," Ellie explained, insistent, her eyes dropping again. "She wanted to know where you were buried."

"She did."

"Wanted to visit you with Lily."

Ziva swallowed, suddenly feeling very open. "What did you say?"

"That you died in a fire and were buried with your family in Israel?" Ellie's response was delivered quickly, like a rehearsed response that appeared all the more ridiculous when relayed to the very person it concerned.

Ziva scoffed, shaking her head. "Orli made a big show of burying me in an official grave, on Mossad premises. Burial of a fallen warrior." She snickered at her own words, the sound hollow and foreign in her throat. "She wanted to get a jump on any mourner that showed too much of an interest. She even took Tony there when he came."

Ellie's eyes narrowed, looking disgusted. "She sounds like a real delight."

Ziva tossed her head to the side in a way that seemed to say, "And then some!", but clearly, the matter was too complicated to put into a single passable phrase.

Ellie gripped the steering wheel again, resuming their journey. "I only met her once. When she brought Tali. But by the sounds of it, she's a real piece of— Work."

Ziva frowned at her, curious. "Is that what you really think?"

"Well, isn't she?"

Ziva gazed out of the window for a while, not finding anything to focus on. She remembered her earliest days in Be'er Sheva after Tony had left. It had been a haze, that time between his 180 on the tarmac and watching the third stick in a row reimburse her with a fateful plus sign, "plus" for "pregnant." Oddly enough, she had called Orli then. There was precedence, of course. They had been in contact; how couldn't they be? Mossad would always be a part of her. But with her entire family gone, and no mother in over a decade, Orli had seemed like the logical choice at the time.

"I've had some time to get to know Orli when my daughter was younger," Ziva said, deliberate in her choice of words. "No doubt our relationship has been difficult."

Ellie scoffed. "I bet."

"But Ellie," Ziva countered, turning to look at her. "Things are a lot more complicated than they appear. In those years, I have learned what it is to be Director Elbaz. I saw the world through her eyes. I watched governments change. Watched legacies become cautionary tales. Try as she might, what worked for my father just did not work for her."

"Sure," Ellie half-relented, turning into the street Ziva knew so well and remembered just as it was. "But that kinda woman, she's made her bed, you know?"

Ziva hummed, staring at her through soft, narrowed eyes. "Never underestimate the sacrifices of a woman in a man's job."

With a fleeting brush of her hand, a small smile, Ziva got out of the car and they set off. Just as she remembered, she marveled at Odette's front yard, filled with flowers, bright and colorful. How comforting they had been to her over the years; a mellow dissonance to the storm of feelings she had so often come here to weather. When she took the steps up the porch, she could feel the wood beneath her soles give way, a slow rot eating at the foundations. She wondered whether Odette's pension had been cut again. Or maybe she was racking up hospital bills again?

They knocked and Odette appeared behind the screen door a moment later, face falling. She clasped a hand over her mouth. Her fingers slipped on the door, twice it jerked back in place with a heavy creak. On her third try, out she stepped with eyes clouded in a mix of confusion and relief. She reached for Ziva, testing for hallucinations, and cupped each cheek with a delicate hand.

"I had hoped," she said quietly, "That you had a story left to tell."

Ziva beamed at her and let herself be drawn into a hug. Even if it had never been this long an absence, it wasn't their first reunion after long breaks: missions on foreign soil, Israel, Somalia. Odette's and her was a relationship as old as hers and NCIS. She had few of those left.

When she pulled back, Odette jabbed a prophetic finger right at Ziva's heart. "If anyone!"

"Right?", Ellie agreed.

Her eyes still locked onto Ziva, as if she might vanish again otherwise, Odette wiggled a percipient thumb into Ellie's direction. "They got someone with your fire," she intoned, lingering on the last word. "Diamond in the rough."

Ellie deflected the comment with a bashful smile, but Ziva nodded her head. "Oh, I know."

"So, is there another case?", Odette asked, losing no time to lead the way down the footpath and towards the backyard garden shed, all the while a hand on the small of Ziva's back.

"You could say that," Ziva replied vaguely, her smile meeting Odette's.

"Ah yes," she retorted. "Always that guard up." At the door, she seized Ziva's hand. "You still have the key?"

"I do." Ziva nodded but made no move for the padlock. She turned to Ellie instead. "But it's not my place anymore."

"You'll say goodbye when you leave, then?", Odette asked.

"Of course," Ziva promised, squeezing her hands, and watched her retreat.

"Her son's in the hospital. Car accident," Ellie whispered to her as the lock snapped open, quite aware of Ziva's unanswered question.

"I see."

As Odette vanished behind a batch of gardenias, Ziva made a mental note to come back later that week and pay the next five years of use forward. Maybe it wasn't her office and her use anymore, but it was her responsibility.

She followed Ellie over the threshold, but the space seemed oddly foreign to her. When she had returned to leave the note, it had felt like a turn to the past as old familiar smells of orange slices, challah bread and oak furniture had invaded her. She had vowed to make haste, covered by night, but had found herself gripping the doorframe to let it all sink in. Now, though she had moments aplenty and light flooded the window, no memory surged of those long nights spent writing on the couch or, wavering in her faith, bowed over on the floor and praying for guidance.

"Nick didn't waste any time," Ellie remarked, summoning Ziva from her thoughts. She huffed at the upturned couch and its empty underside.

Ziva grinned and yanked the cushion back in place with a sound "humph." She walked over to the cabinets, opening one of the hatches by sheer force of habit. A single pen had remained, no cap and dried up.

"Gibbs took all your notebooks, I don't know where—"

"I got them. He gave them back to me," Ziva assured her quickly. "I didn't ever think to re-read them. But maybe that's something Tony and I should do together."

The plants, dead as they had been, were no more and replaced by just one, basking in direct sunlight atop her old desk. A laptop charging cable had been strung all the way from the outlet by the door to the tabletop and secured on the desk with two large pieces of tape.

Ellie came up beside her. "I've been trying this out for myself," she remarked, smiling sheepishly. "Not used to longhand, though."

Ziva chuckled. "It's _your_ story. You may do what feels right."

She crossed the room and took a seat on the couch. Its pillow sagged just the familiar amount. She propped her elbows up on her knees and balanced her chin on folded knuckles. The pensive look on Ellie's face widened her smile.

"You remind me of my sister, you know?", Ziva said.

"And that's a good thing," Ellie replied, sounding unsure, "Since you named your daughter after her and everything."

"A very good thing." Ziva laughed. "It's your eyes. Tali's eyes were full of compassion and understanding. She always just knew. We used to talk a lot. She was younger but only by age. When she died, I started writing things down, to make sense of what was happening around me."

"How often did you come here?", Ellie asked, sitting down as well.

"Once a week. Friday evenings usually," Ziva recalled, her eyes roaming and restless again. "Sometimes more often than that. Sometimes less, when things got too out of hand at work."

Ellie rolled her eyes. "Do they ever."

"You should take care not to let the job take all of you." Ziva reacted on instinct, uncalled-for as it might have seemed to her in the next moment.

"It's not so easy. With Gibbs, well, you know."

There was doubt in Ellie's eyes, like the nimbus had faded. Ziva knew the look well. She had seen it often enough, on the battered face reflected in the mirror. Maybe it was inevitable among parents and children. She dreaded a time when she would see it on her daughter's face.

"We're all bruised and damaged by our stories," Ziva said, unlocking her hands and offering open palms; an apology for the world.

"I just don't know…"

Ellie looked around herself, eyes fixing first on the cabinets, the rows and rows of memories she had uncovered, and then on the chair where Ziva had sat and left traces in the incline and chafing on floor and wood. Ziva watched her, picked up on the loose thread left by Ellie's thoughts.

"Don't let yourself be told how to be, Ellie. No one knows or can do as you do," she encouraged her. "You have to make this your own story or it _will_ tear you apart. I can promise you that."

"Did it?", Ellie asked, looking back at her, "Tear you apart?"

Ziva nodded. "Like Director Elbaz, I was a woman in a man's world. And not just my father's. I thought the more I trained, the more I could do, the more control I would have. I was pledged to a dangerous myth."

"But that's Ziva, the assassin," Ellie held, brows quirked. "What about Ziva, the agent?"

"It was still there, like an instinct. It's not all that different. Like you and me, we are not all that different," Ziva replied gently and leaned into the empty space between them. "All my life, I was never _meant_ to be there. I was always meant to be someone else, someone I could not be, however much they pushed and prodded and mangled me. I was like a tumor, always growing the wrong way. But neither could I become who I wanted to be. It made me so angry with myself. I thought I just wasn't strong enough, not fighting hard enough. Until I realized that I was still doing it _their _way and not mine. That it didn't need strength like brute force."

"What then?"

"Kindness. Being kind to yourself," she said. "It took me a very, very long time to reconcile my life with who I am. To reclaim myself."

Ellie smiled. "Reclaiming sounds good."

"Or claiming? You're still young," Ziva said, pursing her lips on a small smile and scrunching up her nose. "The secret we all know but never talk about is that the rulebook was never made with us in mind, Ellie. It _cannot_— It _will_ not save you."

Ellie's nod, though proffered hesitantly, underlined curious, open eyes. Maybe the purpose of their coming here had been this all along: a passing of the baton or whatever sharp object they could find lying around. To Ziva it felt like a chance to say goodbye. Her notebooks were boxed up; she would have to get them shipped to Europe when all was said and done.

Ellie looked at her watch. "We should get going."

Ziva agreed. "We should."

On the threshold, clicking the lock shut, Ellie turned back to her. "How did you do it, by the way? Morgan. How did you know we reopened the case?"

"The Metro PD officer who took the case," Ziva replied. "I got to know him quite well."

"But weren't you like, I mean—"

"Dead?", Ziva finished for her, chuckling a little as she led her back up the path. "Yes. I had told him, 'No matter what.' And he kept his word."

Ellie quirked a brow. "You always planned on faking your death at some point?"

Ziva's eyes dropped for a second. "No," she said softly. "But I'm a spy, Ellie? You entertain the possibility."

"And so you just kinda jetted over?"

"I was already here. A different job."

They had overlapped, Tony, Tali and her. They had been in Washington together and she had never even told them. While, back home, she had listened to their latest adventures with Nonno, who had been looking to buy a permanent place in Washington at the time, she had held tight to the secret of having wandered the paths of her old life. It had been exhausting, physically and mentally draining, to move among the fractions of that life without ever stepping into the cracks. It had taken all of her training and willpower to stand apart and deny gravity.

Ziva could see more questions in Ellie's eyes but that was all she was prepared to give her, all she could know, so she pressed ahead, up rotting steps, through the creaking screen door, a knock on brittle wood. She returned her keys, promising Odette that she would be back and say goodbye properly once again. At the very least she could do that, they agreed; a worthy exchange for declining to take a scone and witholding new war stories.

Ziva followed Ellie out the gate but trailed slightly behind her as she watched, knowing what needed to happen, the younger woman check and check again all of her pockets for the keys to the car.

"I'm sure I put them in my jacket," she mumbled, getting more frantic.

"You did," Ziva confirmed. Ellie looked up. Ziva was right beside her now. "I haven't thanked you yet, Ellie. For keeping my secret."

Ellie frowned. "You don't—"

"You didn't need to, but you did. I am in your debt," Ziva continued. "But now you need to get out of my way."

Ellie's eyes dropped, spotting her car keys tightly clasped in Ziva's fist. "What are you doing?"

"I'm sorry, but I need to do this."

Processing the situation, Ellie's eyes narrowed with realization. "Dillion."

"Come or stay?"

"Were they ever in danger?", Ellie shot back. Ziva stilled. "Tony and Tali. You said to protect your secret for their safety. Were they in real danger? Or were you just still busy playing human chess?"

"For three years I have gone to the ends of the earth to keep them safe. To keep Tali safe," Ziva replied, gripping the car keys even tighter in her hand.

"That's not an answer to my question."

"It is the only answer I can give you. Now," she asked again and more forcefully, "Come or stay?"

Ellie shook her head, mouth agape. "I can't let you go alone."

"Then you're coming," Ziva decided. She pushed down the door handle on the driver's side without a backwards glance, nor doubting what Ellie would do.

Ziva started the engine, waited a beat, then the door on the passenger's side was yanked open and Ellie dropped herself into the seat and they left.

* * *

"So what's your plan exactly?", Ellie asked, trying to keep step with Ziva's pace.

Ziva had rushed them with the same urgency across the parking lot and through the lobby. Once the receptionist had kindly obliged by Ellie's badge and pointed out Dillion's cubby number, Ziva slowed only to push through milky glass doors into the hallway on Level 3.

"Talk," Ziva said simply, waving Ellie through. "It's a gut feeling I have."

"Right. Guts," Ellie acquiesced, pulling out her badge and ID for yet another assistant. "NCIS. We are looking for Bliths Dillion?"

With a nod and the push of a button the assistant accommodated their request and then went back to ignoring them. The inside of the office building was a glaring mix of white and chrome. It shouldn't have felt, she thought, as cool and sterile as it did with those long rolling walls of high glass windows. A door to their left fell open and a woman stepped out, looked both ways, then strode over.

"Yes?", she asked, flashing the assistant a small smile when she noticed his head shoot up in curiosity.

"Bliths Dillion?"

"That is me."

Ellie held up her badge again. "NCIS. We were wondering if we could ask you a few questions?"

Dillion quirked an eyebrow. "Pertaining to what exactly?"

"Multiple unresolved murders," Ellie elaborated, adding quickly, "Just like your sister's."

"Bethany's nothing but a pile of ash at this point," she retorted. "NCIS wasn't all that interested when she was a body with three bullet holes in her chest. Not sure I'm interested in NCIS, sorry."

"We think this might be bigger than your sister and were hoping you could help," Ziva offered instead.

Dillion's eyes landed on her with a flash. Ziva could see her pupils move like scanners across her face, her neck, her hands; everywhere honey-toned skin was exposed. She cocked her head to the side. "You don't have a badge?"

"She's a—"

"Don't need to know," Dillion resumed, eyes still on Ziva, "There's a yard on Level 1. Much quieter there. Better to talk."

Ziva couldn't quite fathom how more quietness could be achieved outside of the sterile emptiness provided by a hallway of doors. Dillion never even waited for their response and set off, leading them down the steps back into the lobby, along rows of distinctly fake-looking potted bushes and through a metal door. It opened out into a sprawling brick-walled yard the length of half a football field. There were stone benches in the shape of a V and lines of raised flowerbeds, bustling with greenery. A few people huddled by the door, puffing and chatting through their cigarette break.

"So? How can I help your investigation?", Dillion started, slowing but still pressing ahead.

"They never found who killed your sister, correct?", Ellie asked.

"Ruled it a homicide and stopped there," she replied, rounding a corral of benches. "But I wouldn't go so far as to say they never found anyone. They got the perp alright."

"He was found not guilty."

"In the eyes of the law, he was."

"And in yours?"

"I had a sister to bury," she retorted, eyes flashing.

"At the trial, multiple witnesses reported hearing you make death threats," Ziva chimed in, trailing a little behind.

Dillion shrugged, almost laughing. "I'd like to see you react when they let the guy who shot your little sister get off because they can't say — beyond reasonable doubt — that he's guilty. Even if she, without a doubt, is dead." She stopped. They heard the metal door slam shut behind the smokers. Break's over. "Not a luxury I ever had."

"He's dead too, though," Ellie countered.

"Can't say I was sorry to hear it," she replied colorlessly. "But I had nothing to do with that, if that's what you're asking."

"If that is so, then why did you just lead us all the way over here?", Ziva asked. They had made it as far as end of the yard. She pointed at security cameras further to the front. "Where we will not be recorded, I assume."

She shrugged. "Guess I'm not as naive as I was the first time some NCIS Agent came snooping around."

Dillion reached for her leg and Ellie's left hand shot out, her right flying to the gun holstered at her side. Her grunt was the last thing Ziva heard before she engaged, stepping in front of her and connecting the heel of a palm with Dillion's upper arm. Something fell to the ground, maybe a knife, clanging. Ziva ducked Dillion's left hook and drove a balled fist into her spleen. Dillion stumbled backwards with a low growl, hitting the wall behind her. Lunging forward on the next beat, she got a hold of Ziva's wrist, twisted it, and Ziva had to coil into herself so her shoulder wouldn't pop. Then she tugged the arm in and seized Dillion's hand with hers. She could feel her fingernails dig into soft flesh as she curled in on herself, with the momentum lifting Dillion off her feet and flipping her, back first, onto the floor.

Panting heavily, Ziva took two steps back, out of Dillion's reach. Her eyes shot up, searching for Ellie. She was clutching her forearm.

Dillion moved onto her side, coughing, and Ziva widened her stance again, hands shooting up on instinct.

But Dillion just shook her head, her lips contorting in a lopsided smile. "You will regret this."

* * *

Ziva was fixing another strip of tape onto Ellie's forearm to keep the gauze taut and in place when they heard the elevator chime. She didn't even have to turn around to know the furious step to be Gibbs'. Kasie immediately shrank back behind the other two women, releasing the disinfectant and any trace of her involvement, instead folding her hands behind her back. Ellie was perched on the metal table, her arm still propped up by Ziva's hand. It was the first thing Gibbs laid eyes on.

"What the hell were you thinking?", he roared.

"Gibbs, it's just a scratch—"

Instinct taking hold, Ziva stepped into his path. "This isn't on her," she protested.

"Who wears the badge?", he growled, arching around her to look straight at Ellie.

Ellie hopped off the table at this, her voice quiet but firm. "I do."

"I made her come. She tried to stop me," Ziva pressed on, drawing Gibbs' glare onto herself once more. "I took the keys from her."

"She's the damn agent," he barked. "I don't care if you kidnapped her. It's her responsibility."

Ziva scoffed, pushing herself further into his face. "I'm no one's responsibility," she snapped. "I am not Mossad. I am not NCIS. I just need to get this done. And I don't have the time to keep playing around because _you _think you have something to lose!"

Gibbs frowned, voice dropping. "Got something to say to me, David?"

Ziva quirked a brow, clearly in the affirmative. Gibbs cocked his head, then stepped aside and stalked off towards the elevator. Ziva followed, leaving Ellie and Kasie to process, stunned into silence, what they had just witnessed.

Gibbs whipped a hand over the emergency switch and threw his arms to the side, challenging Ziva to start.

"We need this done. Dillion is the quickest way to get there," she insisted. "So I got us there."

"Where's that?" Gibbs shoved a hand past her shoulder, his palm connecting soundly with the elevator doors. "Got an agent injured. Yourself exposed. What were you thinking, Ziva?"

Ziva's jaw set, her lips a thin line. "You don't understand."

"You're damn right I don't understand!", he sneered.

"Well, that makes one of us, doesn't it?", she shot back blankly and he narrowed his eyes, daring her to go on. "Do you think I cannot see it? That Jack can't, or the others? You're refusing to get more aggressive on this because of Hernandez. Because even after all these years you still feel guilty."

"So ya went behind my back," he said, a low growl.

"Oy vey! This isn't about you, Gibbs!", she yelled.

"Then what? What is it, Ziva?"

"It's the only chance I got to be with my child!"

Her admission, like a cry of release, echoed off the metal walls, repeating, repeating, and only just settling, come reality, in their midst. She felt hot, the adrenaline rushing into her chest, her head. Gibbs' eyes widened, softened. He took a step back, tilting his head to the side.

"What?"

Ziva's chest heaved with a sigh. "For three years, I have been a visitor in my daughter's life. Not her mother," she said quietly, firmly. "If I do this final job for Orli, I am free. Free to go back to Tali. Back to Tony."

"So Orli's blackmailing you?"

She started to shake her head but stopped. "It's more complicated than that."

Gibbs' eyebrows rose, arms angled away from his body as if to remind her where they were. Ziva relented. Her jaw loosened, but the words wouldn't come. She stared at him, her surrogate father, former boss, long-time companion, believer in her determinations, and she finally found the place to start.

"Orli saved me," she started, leading with the unquestioned truth. "Mossad intercepted Kort's plan. She did not waste a second. She set up the ruse. I left Tali in her care and ran. I had to make sure I wasn't being followed or targeted before I could meet Tony in Paris. She saved my life. She saved my daughter's life."

"But not for free," Gibbs deduced, sounding weary.

"No. My father taught her well."

"You been working to earn your keep," he said and she could see the pieces fall into place in his mind.

Ziva nodded. "I have been her ghost these three years, odd jobs, missions," she went on, leaning back against the cool metal doors and welcoming the sensation against her hot skin. "In exchange I got to plug the holes in my father's legacy. Anyone who could put me, or Tali, in danger."

"So, this last job—"

"If I get this done, get her the deal with NCIS—" Ziva looked up, eyes ablaze with purpose, "I am truly done."

Gibbs nodded in understanding and reached out. Ziva almost flinched as he set the back of his hand against her cheek. Wild curls had slipped out of her ponytail and he brushed them back behind her ear.

"And exposing yourself?", he asked slowly.

"Makes me less useful to her." Ziva shrugged. "An added bonus. Insurance."

"So this is your ticket out."

"And I will not let it get away from me."

He understood, she could tell. It was bigger than him and always had been. Once the pieces had aligned, his eyes looked almost sad to her. Or disappointed, maybe?

"Dillion's not gonna let up."

"She's dangerous, Gibbs," Ziva insisted. "She is the one who put a target on your back in the first place."

"I'm not important here, Ziva," he retorted, stepping forward again. His voice was so gentle now it was barely audible. "You are. Your family."

Ziva shook her head, keeping her eyes locked on him. "And you are family, Gibbs."

A knock and Kasie's timid voice roused them from their moment. "Umm, you…all? It's a match?"

Gibbs frowned but Ziva didn't give him the moment he clearly wanted. She flipped the emergency switch and dashed out the second the doors slipped aside. She peered at the computer screen as Kasie pointed at the green-rimmed label that showed the percentage of matching alleles.

"Will someone tell me what's going on?", Gibbs griped, standing a little apart from the three women.

"Ziva fought Dillion," Ellie said.

Gibbs scoffed. "I got that."

"I scratched her," Ziva added, not looking at him but holding up her left hand.

"We salvaged the skin under her fingernails. Extracted DNA. Then compared that to another sample," Kasie continued. "And it's a match."

"What sample?", Gibbs asked, getting exasperated again.

"So, Sloane had a theory that Dillion would not have actually hired anyone to _kill_ the guy she thought killed her sister. That she'd have done it herself," Ellie explained.

"And Palmer, because he oozes charm and fairy godmother innocence, got the City ME, who did the autopsy back then, to get Washington PD, who took the lead on the case, to get their evidence released to us— And voilà."

Kasie held up a seamy grey shirt, white at one point in its past, with caked blood stains, dirt and blue-tinged evidence liquid, newly applied. Its appearance certainly did not match Kasie's radiant, triumphant grin.

Gibbs' jotted his chin out. "What?"

"Spit. Dillion's spit."

"It matched," Ellie concluded. "We can place Dillion at the murder scene."

For a moment Gibbs almost seemed impressed, but shook his head a second later. "We can't use it. Ziva—"

"Not in court," Ziva agreed, turning to him with such resolute determination he couldn't deny her anymore. "But as strategy."

Ellie nodded, appearing by Ziva's side. "We need to bring her in, Gibbs."

"What charges?"

Ellie raised her bandaged arm. "Assaulting a federal agent."

A lopsided smile appeared on Gibbs' face. He shifted his weight and turned on the other foot, already halfway out of the lab when Kasie barreled after him.

"Also, she spit on him, like, a lot?", she called out. "I didn't just destroy our only way of proving she probably point-blank executed this guy. Get me her DNA, I'll get you an arrest warrant."

And on that, the elevator doors slid shut.

* * *

Hands dripping beads of water into the sink, Ziva found herself suddenly motionless and silently staring at the mirror in the women's bathroom. The orange tiles were yelling silent memories at her. She didn't turn when the door to one of the stalls opened and Jack appeared beside her, tread as heavy and purposeful as it was recognizable. She eyed Ziva's reflection with a bemused expression.

"Thinking?"

"Reminiscing."

"Of course," Jack dribbled some soap onto her hands and hit the faucet. "Have you eaten yet?"

Ziva stepped over to the paper towel dispenser and tore off two sheets, handing one over. "Not yet."

Jack nodded. "Let me buy you some lunch."

"Buying lunch" apparently meant the coin expense required to get a sandwich and a coffee from the vending machines, but Ziva received both gratefully, feeling actually famished at four in the afternoon with no prior food intake other than a flimsy breakfast. The chocolate bar Jack had insisted on adding to their meal plan lay, like an offering on the altar of her cravings, on smoothed-out wrapper before her. Ziva continued to pick at it — chocolate bars and break rooms really did nothing to abate the rush of memories. Jack was watching her over the rim of her paper cup.

"Gibbs called me," she remarked, making no effort to couch her sudden segue in anything akin to pretense. "I know he didn't really have the right to, but he's worried—"

Ziva just nodded, stopping her short. "I thought he might."

"That is a lot to carry on your shoulders for three years."

Ziva looked up, eyes narrowed defiantly. "Not more than what I have been carrying all my life," she shot back, taking another bite of the chocolate. It wasn't meant to be hostile; it was simple fact. "Just, this time around, it's my child."

"Which is something I can relate to," Jack retorted with a half-laugh.

Ziva offered her a hand, palms turned upward, in a gesture to say "Right?" and continued chewing, gaze dropping.

"I almost died on a mission last year," she asserted then, swallowing. "Tony had been thinking about going back to work, maybe freelance. He could not. Not after that."

The memory of that ill-fated mission had not released its grip on her ever since the adrenaline had settled around her wits enough to move, walk, sling an arm around Ellie and guide her out of Dillion's office building. Focusing on every small task like her life depended on it, as she had always done, she had gotten Ellie into the car and squabbled needlessly about going to an ER, before giving in and promising to tend to the wound herself. They had entered through the evidence garage and quickly enlisted Kasie. All the while, up until the moment Ellie had offered her an "It's okay" kind of smile, the feeling of that memory had simmered in her chest, like an instinct she couldn't shake. By now, it had taken manifest root in her heart.

"What happened?", Jack asked, eyes narrowed behind dark-rimmed glasses.

"Escape plan gone awry. I spent three days out in the open around el-Arish. When I finally managed to slip by the roadblocks, I was a week late reporting back. They had initiated MIA protocols by then. Orli was terrified," she recalled. "_I_ was terrified." She looked up, finding Jack's eyes brim with understanding.

"When I finally got back to Paris, it was as though Tali could sense what I had been through. That I had come _this _close to death," Ziva continued absently. "She had always been a little more clingy when I returned, then furious at me for leaving. But it got worse. Bedwetting, night terrors. And then I had to leave again, only a few weeks later. I left Tony to deal with all of it."

"Is she okay now?"

Ziva nodded slowly, but shrugged. "We got help," she replied. Okay was a big word. "A therapist specializing in child trauma. She's very physical with Tali." Then a smile broke on her face at the thought. "It suits her very well. She can be all over the place. Then she is broody again when she draws or thinks. She thinks like my brother thought. Ari too had this dimple between his brows. She will be assessing and assessing until she knows what to say."

Ziva dropped her hand, not feeling a dimple like her daughter's above the ridge of her own nose. "She deserves a mother who is there for her."

"And you deserve to be that mother," Jack insisted likewise.

"Obligation works differently in my family," Ziva mused, finishing the last piece of the chocolate bar and crumpling up the wrapper in her fist. "You leave to protect them. Maybe I understand that now."

Jack pushed herself forward into the table, as she had done that morning when they had met. This time, however, she reached out a hand and clasped it, squeezing tight, over Ziva's balled fist.

"It'll be okay."

Ziva's eyes lingered, feeling tears prickle behind her eyes, and she offered a silent nod.

"Hey, Ziva?"

Jack turned and they both looked up. McGee was standing in the entrance to the break room, still in full NCIS gear, bulletproof vest, hat, gun holstered. His face was tinged in urgency.

"We just brought Dillion in," he informed her.

"Will the charge stick?", Jack asked, sounding doubtful.

"Not for long," he retorted, looking back at Ziva. "Boss wants you to interrogate her."

Ziva nodded quickly, and her eyes dropped to Jack's hand, still on hers. "Jack, I—"

Sitting back, Jack waved her forward. "Go. But Ziva?", she called, stopping her in the doorway. "Be careful? Dillion just wants a stage. She's cruel, manipulative, narcissistic. And you've personally affronted her."

"That was the point."

"I know." Jack tilted her head, her eyes though were wide and urgent. "That's why I'm reminding you."

Ziva nodded her appreciation and left, following McGee into the elevator and down to basement level, where the orange-tinged walls wouldn't end and no windows broke the tension she could feel welling up, knocking against her diaphragm and into her lungs. It had been quite a while since she had played the investigator, taken on the role of the agent, its rules and agenda.

"Can't be in there alone," Gibbs' words received her at the door to the interrogation room, almost like an apology. He handed her a bottle of water with a finger pointed unmistakably at the ceiling. "Protocol."

"What does protocol say on asking questions?", Ziva asked.

"Grey area," McGee replied with a wink. Then he stepped around them to enter the observation room next door, to watch and record.

Gibbs grabbed a hold of Ziva's thumb just as she was reaching for the doorknob. "Don't let her—"

"I know," Ziva assured him, lightly brushing her hand over his.

When they entered, Dillion was sitting straight-backed with her hands folded neatly on the metal table. Her left forearm, covered by a white blouse, seemed thicker than the other — remnants of that afternoon's fight. She didn't turn at the sound of the door, but followed Gibbs with her eyes as he pointedly placed his chair across from her but away from the table, then straddled it, hands set between his thighs. Just behind him, Ziva didn't stop until meeting the far corner of the room and eased her back against the wall.

"Feels like a reunion, doesn't it?", Dillion started, still and even-toned. "You, Agent Gibbs, should have a beer in your hand, though. And you—" She flashed Ziva a smile. "Ziva David, daughter of former Mossad Director Eli David, former Mossad Agent, Kidon Unit. Former NCIS Special Agent. Am I forgetting anything?"

Ziva didn't respond.

"Former sister, twice dead. So, you _do_ know what that feels like. You never mentioned," she continued, eyes locked on Ziva now, unblinking. "Anything else?"

Again, Ziva held back.

"Oh, right," she said, lingering on a pause for another beat, and another. "Mother to a little girl."

Ziva blinked, her grip on the water bottle visibly tightening, and by her shoulders she was lifted, on instinct, right off the wall. At once, she was standing upright.

"The man who you think killed your sister—"

"I already told you," Dillion cut her off. "But if you insist on discussing hypotheticals, just fine by me. How about we talk about Pedro Hernandez? Or Ilan Bodnar?" She leaned back in her chair. "It's funny what you can find out when you have the right people looking."

Ziva ignored the insinuations, stepping closer now. "Did you have anything to do with his death?"

The corner of Dillion's mouth twitched ever so slightly. "Hernandez hit a bump in the road. Bodnar slipped and fell. And that man, whose death you think I had anything to do with? Just as unfortunate an accident."

"That's a no?", Ziva asked.

"It's what is, Ms. David. Your reality, Agent Gibbs' reality, my reality," Dillion replied.

"It is only _your_ reality that is of interest right now."

"Oh, no. No, no, no. That's where you're all kinds of wrong, Ms. David," Dillion countered. "We are here to discuss _all_ of us. Because this is about justice. So, right now and in this room, we can adjudicate how to serve it. In fact, the people in _t__his_ room are particularly suited for that task." She raised locked hands and pointed a finger at each of them, taking aim over the ridge of her thumbs.

"Okay," Ziva conceded, deciding to play along. "What's justice to you, then?"

"Again, you're asking the wrong question. The real question is what is justice to _you_?", Dillion shot back. "Because I know what it is to me. It's the two of you who are confused."

Ziva quirked a brow. "How's that?"

"Well, you see, Ms. David, you take justice as it suits you. You don a badge and suddenly justice is the law. And then sometimes, it's the grey bits in-between the laws. So you drop the badge and suddenly justice is whatever you want it to be. Because it's _you_ who was wronged. So you get to deal out justice however you please. Doesn't that sound more confused to you than believing in a higher sense of justice from the start?"

"I'm assuming that is _your_ vision," Ziva deduced, arms now crossed. "A higher sense of justice?"

"It's not a vision, Ms. David. Technically speaking. It's reality. _Me_…I realized that the law can be very blind. That the people who are meant to enact it are corrupted by the power it accords them," Dillion replied. "At least I take responsibility for what I think and how I act. You, though, you just hide behind laws and mirrors. And you protect your own while you play judge, jury and executioner for the rest of us."

Ziva scoffed. "Did you realize that before or after your service?"

"Oh, being a Marine I learned one thing very quickly," Dillion responded easily, "That guns can speak the law and they make justice happen. But you tell me, what makes you feel more powerful? The badge in your pocket or the gun at your belt? What do _you_ say, Agent Gibbs?"

As he resumed his silence, barely twitching a brow, Dillion turned back to Ziva. "See? It's people like you who get all mixed up."

"Right," she retorted. "And you got it all figured out."

"You just don't like it when outsiders play your game. Because it doesn't matter what you tell yourself but what you _really think_," Dillion sneered, leaning forward on the table, "Is that because they gave you the badge and they had you swear an oath justice is better served by your hands. You can stand there and taunt me all you want. But this is about you thinking that _you _got it all figured out and we all just gotta toe your line. But tell you a secret?"

Dillion beckoned Ziva to step closer, but she refused to follow suit. Still unperturbed, Dillion jotted her face forward, smiling. "You're no better. Not a bit. You're no more _just_ than me because you have the badge or the law. You're just a handmaid. And tell you something else." She pointed at the water bottle in Ziva's hand. "I will _absolve_ you from having to trick me into taking a sip. Give it here."

Ziva's eyebrows rose ever so slightly but she handed the water over nonetheless. Without dropping her eyes once, Dillion unscrewed the cap and took a long, exaggerated sip, then returned cap and bottle separately, like an offering.

She smirked. "Your laws can't touch me."

Ziva didn't respond, just turned and walked off, leaving the door wide open behind her. Gibbs took another moment to hold Dillion's stare, then slowly got up as well.

"We'll see about that," he said and left, closing the door behind him.

In the observation room, Ziva had found McGee beaming at her as he braced a hand against her shoulder and squeezed it encouragingly.

"You got her," he said.

"She really, really likes to hear herself talk, doesn't she?", Kasie remarked, carefully balancing in her hands the water bottle, now coated in Dillion's saliva. She looked like she was itching to get out of there and down to the lab.

"The way she just went off when you took her bait," McGee gushed, smiling at Ziva. "Woman who can't be moved."

"You did good," Gibbs agreed, smiling proudly.

Ziva nodded. "That we did."

"Now we can trace her case back to the judge and triangulate the data with Deakin's. This'll speed up months' worth of work."

McGee's smile persisted brightly, but Ziva's eyes wandered over to the person beyond the two-way mirror. It felt odd. She had expected to feel more than that, and quickly; more than the nothing that was taking a hold of her. She had expected, hoped beyond hope, to walk away from that case freer, lighter, filled with more of a future than a purpose. If that feeling were ever to settle in, it had not yet arrived. Right in that moment she only felt an odd prickling at the back of her neck, as if she were being followed.

McGee moved to return Dillion to custody until lab work was completed and Ziva took that chance to quickly excuse herself. The downstairs suddenly felt cramped and suffocating. She had forced herself to stay on target during interrogation, by courtesy of her training, but Dillion's words were starting to resound in her head and louder by the minute. She willed herself to move them aside, focusing on incremental tasks, writing up and filing the interrogation protocol, filling Jack in, and eventually starting to pack up her things for the evening.

She would jog home, she decided. She quickly mapped it all out in her mind: go downstairs to the lockers, retrieve and put on gym clothes, take the long route. All mapped out.

"Local LEOs should be down there arresting her right this moment," Ellie informed her, rounding the corner and stepping into the bullpen. "DNA matched. They're re-opening the case."

Ziva nodded, offering her a small smile. "That's good."

"You did it," Ellie continued, leaning against her desk — her old desk.

Ziva found herself staring at it for longer than she had meant to. "Not quite," she replied absently.

"But soon."

"Yes," Ziva agreed but her words sounded forced. "Maybe."

Ellie sought her eyes, waiting for her to rearrange her bag for what was likely the third time, before she finally looked back up at her.

"You're in more danger now, aren't you?", Ellie asked, already knowing the answer.

Ziva sighed, swinging the bag over her shoulder. "Something to think about tomorrow."

"Right."

Ziva pointed at the thick layer of gauze around Ellie's arm. "I _am_ very sorry about that. I didn't mean to—"

"I've had worse, don't worry," she assured her, smiling through thin lips. "Actually, I came up to thank you?"

Ziva's eyes narrowed. "What for?"

Ellie shrugged. "For everything today."

"For getting you injured?" Ellie chuckled lightly but her answer remained unchanged. Ziva nodded, accepting it that way. "I'm glad."

She reached out and squeezed Ellie's hand. When she turned to leave, Ellie took a hold of the same to stop her.

"You might want to go up to MTAC first," she suggested, a bright grin on her face. "I think McGee has a surprise for you."

* * *

Ziva had settled her arms against her body in a tight brace. She couldn't sit still, so she stood. Her eyes flittered from the screen, pitch black, to the control panel, empty rows of chairs, McGee. "And you are certain this line is secure? As a precaution—"

McGee swiveled around in his seat. She had asked a variation of this question before. Twice. He met her with an understanding smile. "Yes. I'm having the signal bounce all over the globe, Ziva. I promise."

She nodded again, trusting him. Gibbs was only inches from her now, standing to his full height, shoulders back, neck straight. His Marine posture, so imposing and yet, it seemed, just an embodied defense when life came crashing.

The feed crackled and she whirled around. A dining room materialized: the familiar grey-tiled kitchen island, that morning's dishes still towering idly beside a box of cereal, one of Tali's stuffed bears (her beloved Dov), two chairs, one lined with green polyester and the other yellow. She had personally picked them despite Tony teasing her about how "perfectly domestic" her choices were. Maybe she had gone through with it thanks to his teasing. Both chais were, as yet, conspicuously empty.

The screen dipped forward and she glimpsed a hand — _his_ hand — before he finally took a seat, in the flesh, staring straight at them. He quickly commanded the breadth and width of the MTAC screen, a bright smile stretching the ends of his salt-and-thyme stubble. His eyes visibly adjusted, then settled rightly on her.

"Bonjour, love."

Ziva smiled. His name fell like a sigh of relief from her lips. "Tony."

The brightness of his features dimmed momentarily. "How are you, Ziva? You look tired."

"I'm fine, Tony," at the skeptical tilt of his brow, she added, "I promise. Just a long day."

"Boss," Tony resumed his greetings, slightly shifting focus.

"Not your boss anymore, DiNozzo," Gibbs corrected, a smile on his face. "Good to see you."

"Good to see the team reunited," he said, his eyes landing on McGee in turn, who had moved his chair into focus on Ziva's other side. "Can't say if that makes me worry any less about what Ziva's up to."

It was Gibbs who took command of that question, allowing Ziva to remain silent. "Doing one hell of a job, she is."

Tony shrugged, a smile on his face again. "If I had a penny—"

"So, how are you?", Ziva asked quickly.

"Fine 'n dandy. Same old, same good," he replied easily, driving a hand through his already-tousled hair, eyebrows arching up. "I swear, one of these days Madame Autry is just gonna grab that kid of ours out of my cold, dead hands and adopt her."

"She won't have to," Ziva retorted, chuckling loudly.

And just like that she felt the familiar prickle of oncoming tears around her eyes. It seemed so insignificant, but oh, how she missed him, all of it. Tony's stories of the affectionate older woman, who owned the cornerstore bakery and had no children of her own, were a common, beautifully mundane delight in their shared lives. How she missed waiting on the couch while he took Tali on their morning grocery run; the smell of freshly baked bread in the house thereafter; Tony's dramatic retelling, their little girl's innocent laughter. It was so far away, so far away from her. It always seemed easier to refuse any contact while on mission. Feeling but a fraction of it was too cruel for words.

She probably blinked a few too many times not to rouse Tony's suspicions. "Madame Autry will bribe her with chocolate croissants and marzipan and Tali will go willingly," she went on.

"She really will, too," Tony deadpanned, shoulders stooping. "She's basically told me as much this morning. Now that Autry's has a whole line of nut-free pastries named after Tali—"

"There's no stopping her."

"Really not."

His eyes suddenly trailed off, coming to rest instead at medium-height in the off-left. Ziva heard him confirm, "Toi, mais oui," then repeat it in English, "Yes, you." _Her. _His voice dropped to a whisper, hushed conversation turning into little more than muffled white noise over the transmission. Still, Ziva stepped forward. As Gibbs and McGee let themselves fade into the darker corners of the room, she craned her body to catch a word. If she could just get closer to Tony's face, maybe—

"You've been talking about nothing else all day, kiddo. Be stubborn later."

Tony reached a hand behind the screen and stilled. Ziva could see his biceps flex beneath a grey shirt, giving something a little tug. He leaned forward and out of view and backward again, then again, and again. Ziva waited patiently, her arms still strapped to her torso like the seat belt of a race car. By the time Tony returned to face her, she had more than halved the distance between them.

"We're having some ninja attitude problems," he said, looking at her apologetically.

"I can see that." Ziva could only imagine the situation from where she was, tens of thousands of kilometers away. "Taliah?", she called out sweetly.

Tony's eyes skipped sideways once again but kept moving back around on themselves. A small figure swept past him and clambered onto the yellow-lined chair. The little girl lurched forward onto her arms, nudging the chair closer to the table with her foot, and propped herself up on her elbows. Her face easily commanded the entire screen. Her hair was darker than it had been three years ago when McGee and Gibbs had last seen her. Ever Ziva's unruly curls now, they were pinned back in a messy ponytail, with a few stray ends framing her bright round face, set in a determined frown. Tali's arms were crossed, honey-toned forearms slipping out from underneath an oversized orange t-shirt. Such bright colors in a single shot, it made Ziva blink and realize what she had missed that first evening, back in Gibbs' house: the color of such life.

"Ima," Tali said simply, sounding out her mother's title as a chastisement for the same.

Ziva smiled. "Shalom, ahava. E'ich holech it'cha?"

"Tov," the little girl responded curtly, tilting her head to the side. "Where's you now?"

Ziva watched her eyes flitter across the screen, trying to discern the odd shapes and appliances of a high-security tactical communications and navigations center. "With some old friends of your Abba's and mine," Ziva explained and laughed when Tali squinted at the screen, trying to make out the shadowy figures behind her.

"They have a video phone?"

Ziva nodded. Her usual explanation of not owning a phone capable of making video calls, or any cross-border calls for that matter (which was technically true for her burner phones), were prompting both her daughter's question and Ziva's guilt.

"Whatcha you doing?"

"I am working, my love," Ziva replied quickly. "Just like we talked."

"With Abba's friends."

"Yes, with Abba's friends. And mine."

Tali nodded, a somber expression on her face now. She sighed a deep sigh. "Abba spilled juice all over Dov this morning cause he wasn't paying all his attention," she recalled, her eyebrows knitted together. "I think he really misses you lots, Ima. He doesn't say. But he looks at his phone all the time. Like, _all _the time. More times than usual." Then, dropping her voice to a whisper and looking sternly at Ziva, she divulged, "But Abba says we decided not to tell you."

"Beseder." Ziva tipped her head, mimicking her daughter's whisper. It was hard to look at Tony just then, so she pressed ahead. "So what have you been doing today besides spilling juice?"

Tali shrugged. "No school."

"Because we didn't know when you'd be able to call," Tony added just as Ziva was readying her next question. "Tali, don't you have something to show Ima?"

Ringlets of hair whirled about with Tali's vigorous nod and she straightened her back, squaring her little shoulders. "See, Ima! Can you see?", she called out, tugging and plucking at her shirt.

Ziva smiled, swallowing hard. "Yes, I can see, my love."

"It's yours one and it's my favorite color. And look—" She grabbed onto the collar with one and the seam with the other hand, pulling fast. The faded image balked at the movement. "It's Tour Eiffel."

"Yes, your Abba bought it for me a long time ago," Ziva recalled with a fleeting smile towards Tony.

"And he asked the man to find an orange one because you like Tour Eiffel and it's your favorite color also," Tali continued, reciting her parents' memory by heart.

"That's right," Ziva confirmed, eyes locking with Tony's.

He had teased her and swung an arm around her shoulders to keep her from leaving, and she had let him. "Just pretend we're tourists, here to make memories, Zee-va. Our Roman Holiday," he had insisted, already flaunting way too many Euro bills at the bemused shopkeeper.

"Even though Abba does not like the color as we do, yes?"

Tali shook her head, wrinkling her nose in disgust. "Cause he likes yucky blue."

"I will have you know, little Miss Munchkin," Tony shot back, clearly attacking the little girl with a tickle or two under the table as she suddenly erupted in giggles and teetered in and out of frame. "That blue is the color of queens and kings. Not to mention, the warmest color."

Tali shrugged, sporting a large grin and angling her body away from her father in preparation for another bout of tickles. "Ima says orange is the color of the sunrise. That's much warmer. Right, Ima?"

Tali wasn't even looking at her, still fixing her eyes suspiciously on Tony. Ziva nodded, chuckling softly. "That's right, my love."

The little girl shot her father a look that reminded both Tony and Ziva so much of who her mother was: eyebrows raised, forehead slightly set in wrinkles, head tilted, lips pursed at their peak, eyes smiling through long lashes. Just like that, she had settled the argument.

"Oh, wait here!", Tali instructed her, already halfway off-screen.

Tony's arm shot out to steady her along with the chair. Patting across the wood floor, her steps growing quieter in the distance, it left Tony and Ziva a window. Their gaze met, no word spoken, and she could feel his eyes tap-tap-tap lightly across her face, looking for every sign that only he, really, knew to discern. The edges of his mouth, raised steadily thus far, dipped somewhat. He seemed to ask, "Are you really okay?", and Ziva nodded while a squeal from the off pierced their silent facade. What else could she say right now?

"Look, Ima!", Tali called back to her, only about half of her body in a chair again. With a sound clunk, she planted a snow globe, twice the size of her palm, on the table, a triumphant smile on her face. "Look! I can make it snow super long now."

She held the footed sphere out in front of her, turned it upside down, and waited until all the specks of white had gathered together in a neat, quivering heap. With a flick of her hand, she flipped it back over, right way up. Two miniature people, sitting on a bench by a frozen lake, were promptly engulfed in a thick flurry of snow. Tali looked on with wide, excited green eyes, chin resting in her palm.

"See? Abba showed me. I can put it by my bed when I got to sleep. And then it'll snow while we ask our angel family to look out for you, Ima."

"It's beautiful, ahava," Ziva managed to press out and she could feel Tony's eyes on her again, as she did Gibbs' on her back. "Kol hakavod."

Snow had never lost its fascination for Tali, not since she had experienced it for the very first time, counting two years and a half to her name, during her first Parisian winter. They had taken her out, walking down the Champs in a stroller, and her eyes had glowed in excitement. The flecks of white on her skin, soon reduced to droplets of water, made her giggle in two parts awe, one part delight. The snow globe, bought in Zurich on her last mission, had been Ziva's parting gift to her daughter some weeks ago.

Once a blanket of white had settled on the bottom, Tali pushed the globe aside and leaned in close. "Ima?" It was a request this time, her voice whittled down to a whisper.

"Yes, my love?"

By now Ziva had moved all the way to the front of the room, her hands propped up on the control panels underneath the MTAC screen. She wasn't sure whether the cameras even worked that way, that she wasn't just becoming ever smaller in her daughter's eyes. But she would hear her, and this way she could see every pore, every line on Tali's face: the scar from when she had slipped, a toddler of 18 months, and cut her skin on a sharp rock among the olive trees in Be'er Sheva; the hairline that was not Ziva's peak but her sister's gentle wave; the shade that was patently theirs, darker than Tony's, bearing the remnants of Israeli sands.

"You come back to visit soon?", she asked softly.

"Don't worry, ahava. I will be back with you and Abba very soon." Ziva tried to assure herself as much as her daughter.

For a second it looked as though Tony was going to move around Tali to say something, but he just slipped an arm around her middle and shifted her onto his lap. He kissed her temple while Tali kept her eyes straight, locked on her mother. She leaned back into Tony's arms, fitting her head between his shoulder and neck, and took a fierce hold of his hands.

"Bientôt, Ima," she chirped.

"Counting to a million," Tony added, winking at her. "Be safe. I love you."

"I love you too," and adding for Tali, "Ani ohevet otah', ahava."

The feed froze on the kiss Tali was in the middle of blowing out to her and Ziva pressed forward, anxious to memorize their faces and take them with her. She didn't yet know how, after all this, she could find her way back to them. But she had to believe that there would be a way.

* * *

Chapter 4: **[Ziva]** \- Chapter 5: [Tali] - Chapter 6: [Epilogue]


	4. Ziva

** **Ziva**: Magen David **

Ziva woke with a start. Her shirt had ridden up and she was lying half-naked, flat-backed against the mattress, feeling cold and exposed. Only a corner of the comforter was still clenched in her fists; most of it lay crumpled on the floor. She felt the moisture pooling in the crook of her neck and reached a hand to her forehead, beads of sweat coating her fingertips that she swept into her hair with a huff. Tali's face was still there. She hadn't seen her little girl in ten days, but in her dreams she was, haunting her, and often, as today, beyond her grasp, unreachable, screaming for her, for her Ima, but growing ever fainter, ever farther into the distance.

Her nightmares had never abated, not since Somalia. The subject had changed, the faces of her torturers replaced by the faces of dead relatives and, eventually, the fears for her daughter. They had mingled, at times, with Tali's nightmares, on the occasions Ziva had been there, bringing experience and calm to soothe the little girl's tears. Mostly, though, she bore them alone. And alone she was again.

She crept out of bed, flinging the comforter back onto the bed without ceremony. Over at the window she drew the curtains aside and found nothing but specks of light in the dark. The flimsy sheen of the streetlights illuminated the buzz of insects and a stray cat, seeking refuge underneath a gardenia bush. Tali's birthstone pendant lay heavy against her damp chest.

She pulled on a pair of sweatpants and went, leaving her door lazily ajar, out into the hallway and down the stairs. She was surprised to find the kitchen light on. A waft of gas hit her as she approached. She met Gibbs at the counter. Fledging flames prickled at the underside of a kettle. He was dressed in a USMC shirt and boxers.

"Did I wake you?", she whispered, her voice not yet full.

"Nah." He shook his head, met her with half a smile.

Absently, he handed her an unopened box of crackers that she would swear was the same box of crackers he offered her the last time she had staid in his house over than six years ago. That wasn't the point, though, she realized, and brought them along as she sat down at the table. She drew one leg up, folding her arms around it, and rested her cheek on her knee. Gibbs emerged a few moments later with two mugs filled to the brim with steaming water, tea bags dangling over the sides and the ominous tea egg from his finger. Redundant, Ziva noted, but she well let it be at this hour, plopping it right into her mug when he put it in front of her.

"Todah," she mumbled and clasped cold hands over the hot ceramic. Gibbs remained silent and she appreciated that he knew better than to ask. "Did Ellie manage to convince the Pritchards?" Shop talk was the easiest topic she could think of right now.

Gibbs nodded, not really much minding his mug at all. Ziva sorted through memories of the few times she had seen him drink tea in earnest. She stopped at one.

"How many does that make?"

"Full dozen."

Ziva nodded. Starting with what they had gathered on Deakin, and adding the details of Dillion's case, they had been able to work backwards in search for more possibles. It had left Ellie, Torres and McGee with the task of nonstop interviewing. Ziva, for her part, had been officially barred from leaving Navy Yard premises. Resigned to desk work, she had spent the last week and a half preparing the paperwork while the others were trying to convince people to testify against the network, and thereby forego charges of their own and soothe their conscience. Recent confessions, eleven before the Pritchards, had allowed them to pinpoint by name and wiretap, with probable cause, a sizable chunk of the network's wider Washington cadre. They were well on their way now to shutting down the entire Washington hub, and more.

"Leon's meeting the state attorney today," Gibbs went on.

"To see if he'll take the case?", she asked.

Gibbs nodded again. He was watching her, she knew, through every sip, but she just couldn't find the words at 2:34 in the morning. He tapped a finger against the side of his mug. Ziva wondered whether he actually preferred his tea overly infused, but then he suddenly got up and poured a healthy splash of booze into his mug (either bourbon or rum, she couldn't tell). She couldn't say for sure whether that would help, but he looked mildly satisfied with his first sip and sat back down.

"We gotta prepare," he declared colorlessly. "For when the case's over."

She had done well simply ignoring that reality for the last ten days; then again, her subconscious clearly wasn't as obliging.

"SecNav—"

Her head swayed over the rim of her mug. She swallowed down the sip pooling in her mouth. "It's only for the case that NCIS can keep up Dillion's 24/7 security," she said, knowing this to be true. "It is like Director Vance said. It will be on me."

"What will you do?"

"My deal with Orli still stands." A shrug fell lightly from her shoulders. "She promised Tali would be safe. That my family would be safe if Director Vance kept his end of it."

"He will," Gibbs assured her. "I'll talk to him."

She gave him a small smile. "I appreciate that, Gibbs. Her safety is all I wanted."

"She'll be safe," he repeated. "But with you?"

This time, Ziva's shrug was more pronounced. She retrieved her mug once more and leaned back against the chair, its rods pressing against her through a flimsy night shirt.

"I don't know yet." And again this was true.

Silence fell and within the darkness of the dining room it easily lingered. But in the darkness the ghosts had free reign, and her head soon resounded with the voices that she had worked so hard to dispel. She was tired; God, how tired she was. With nothing ever changing, what did it matter to keep ghosts at bay?

"You know, when I was running from Kort. For a moment, _just_ a moment, I thought about coming back." She was thinking out loud now. "I thought about putting a bullet through his chest for what he did to us. Forcing me to abandon my child. But instead, I laid low."

Gibbs nodded. "You left it to us."

"Tony shot him, he told me," Ziva said. "He left NCIS to take care of Tali, I know. But no less because of Kort. These kinds of moments, they stay with you. Revenge never leaves you."

"He did what he had to do for his family," Gibbs responded. "You're letting that interrogation get to you."

Ziva shook her head, her eyes still unfocused. "Orli sent me on all sorts of missions over the years. But my father's files and his secrets, the people I knew could be dangerous to us. Each time, I had to make a choice on how to engage." She finally looked up at Gibbs. "I was not engaging blindly. I was not his assassin anymore. You have to believe me that."

Her voice resounded as a plea and for a moment she was back, thirteen years into the past, pleading to him as a changed woman over the corpse in the elevator, and all she could see was Tony, years later, who knew that it would take much more to change and believe it.

Gibbs reached out, placing a hand on her knee. "You did what you had to do," he maintained.

Ziva nodded, but faintly; she didn't feel convinced. "All this fear, all this time…" Her voice drifted off and she downed the last sip. She forced a smile on her face, lightly touching Gibbs' hand. "Thank you for the tea."

He nodded and she left, abandoning her mug in the sink, to go back upstairs. She took another shower, hoping the hot water would relax her muscles, and then willed sleep to come, which it did long after the first rays of sun had slipped through lazily drawn curtains. She woke hours later and hours after her alarm. Gibbs had already gone. She found his note on the kitchen table saying that he wanted her to sleep in. She briefly wondered whether he had just turned off the alarm in her stead but thought nothing more of it then. She relished the quiet of the house, the lack of contact, much as Gibbs' presence had been a comfort to her in the past few weeks. It felt like a tender greeting, like a welcome to a time to come.

She packed up, took her meds, ignored the headache setting in at the back of her scalp, and drove herself to the Navy Yard. The badge around her neck with the words "consultant" in prominent lettering usually made for an easy gateway through metal detectors and inane smalltalk. But that morning, amid the late-blooming bustle in the entrance hall, she couldn't find her ID badge. She rummaged through her bag, through papers and notes, at one point just flipping it all upside down on the guard's desk. Nothing. She searched her wallet, pulled out every card. Nothing. Under her breath, Hebrew curse after Hebrew curse was dropping like shellfire as the guards consulted and eventually resolved the matter via a call to the Director's office.

Stepping off the elevator and into the squadroom, Ziva was still muttering. The insipid ministry of the matter — when she had been going in and out of that building every and each day, at the earliest and latest hours, for weeks and weeks — had singed her raw nerves. She flung her bag and wallet onto McGee's desk. Her headache, by now, was bulging out of her eyes.

"Bad morning?", Ellie asked, scanning her face with concern.

"You could say that," Ziva replied and slipped her eyelids shut against the gleam of the overhead lights. When she opened them again, she noticed the conspicuous emptiness of the desks around her. "Where is everyone?"

"Gibbs and McGee are upstairs, prepping the handover of the case," she informed her. "And Torres—"

"Got y'all a coffee and a brownie to celebrate," he announced, stepping up behind Ziva with a carrier and four cups. "I even got the hazelnut latte one you like, Ellie."

"Ziva doesn't drink coffee."

"I got a hot cocoa, like she had last time—" He deposited both bag and tray on Ellie's desk with an air of easy unconcern. "Hey, who's Chaya Zegev?"

Ziva had ignored their banter in favor of stretching out in her chair, massaging her temples and willing her headache to abate. At Torres' words, her eyes shot open at once. He was brandishing a 2-by-4 business card and volleying a curious glance from one to the other.

"Kochav Investigative Services," he read out loud. "What's that?"

"It's me," Ziva said quietly.

"What d'you mean?", Torres asked, checking the card again. "You run a PI agency?"

Ziva nodded. "It must've dropped out of my wallet—" She walked up to him and snatched the card from his grasp with a little less patience than she would have normally mustered.

"You operated Orli's missions out of that agency, didn't you?", Ellie asked, following her closely and putting the pieces together.

Ziva nodded again, stuffing the card into her bag alongside all that other mess of papers and folders and notes, the cumulative residue of weeks' worth of investigations, interviews, print-outs, and connections.

Behind her, Torres resumed his line of questioning. "So Chaya was your cover?"

"Orli's cover for me," Ziva corrected him, not turning around. Again she pushed her eyelids shut. "Chaya has French citizenship. Is Tony's spouse, sponsoring his visa. She lives alone on Rue du Moulin, arrondissement Antony. No children. No living relatives."

Ellie got up, her hand suddenly coming up on Ziva's shoulder. "Ziva—"

"I'm sorry."

Ducking away from Ellie's touch, Ziva hastened out of the bullpen and steered herself in a direct line for the emergency stairwell at the back. Flipping the door open with a single push, she dashed down consecutive flights of stairs until she had put enough distance between herself and the lights at evidence garage level. Tony and she had often retreated here, away from a demanding case where they would rush from the lab to interrogation to evidence and out, just to get twenty minutes of quiet and a quick lunch. She stopped. Silence settled around her. The lighting was dim, the staircase a tight coil blocking most of the upstairs overhead LEDs and the doors to the garage fed motion sensors that she didn't plan on setting off. Crouching against the wall, she dipped her head back, eyes closed, and breathed. Nose in, mouth out. Slowly. In and out. In and out.

The phone in her pocket buzzed against her thigh, like an anchor. She sent a quick text to the most recent number, then put it on silent beside her. It took a few more minutes and she felt her heart beat slow, settle in her chest, before steps started echoing, ever louder, ever closer. She listened to her slide down the wall beside her.

"Didn't know this spot yet," Jack commented, drawing her feet up to her chest. "Very quiet." Ziva nodded, confirming her need for it. "Fighting demons in the dark?"

Ziva puffed out a small laugh. "Something like that."

Jack remained quiet so Ziva could almost pretend, when she closed her eyes again, that she wasn't even there at all. Except that she was sitting close, their shoulders touching, and Ziva could feel her presence, her steadying patience.

"I just thought that it would feel different. Better," she admitted, a sigh from her lips.

Jack nodded beside her. "And that moving on would be easier?"

"Clearer."

Jack nodded again, more firmly. "Yeah, I know that feeling."

"I just don't know how I can— Ever since the mortar attack, I have just been going and going and going. Getting Tali out, making sure she got here, that she was safe. Waiting for the case to close," she chanted. She balled her hands to fists and pushed against her knees. "My God, I was going up the walls waiting for them, just alone with my thoughts!"

She took a breath, slowing herself down again. "Then there was Tony. Then her night terrors, just seeing how terrified she was. Then moving out on training, missions, leaving them, coming back, leaving again. And now this."

She pushed her head back again, back against the wall, and breathed out a deep, heavy batch of used air.

"Feel better?", Jack asked.

"Not really."

"Look, Ziva," Jack started, placing a gentle hand on hers. "What you're feeling is normal. You haven't yet let up. You've just kept fighting and pushing and pushing. You can let go now. It'll feel like shit for a while. But you can do this. You've done it before. It's just the next step."

"Can I, though? Let go?", Ziva countered, eyes hard. "Dillion has a whole network of people out there. For all we know, Gibbs could still be a target."

"You mean _you're_ a target," Jack corrected. "Gibbs, that was about quenching an investigation. You, that's a personal matter now."

Ziva nodded, silent, shoulders sagging against the flat concrete wall. She dipped forward and it felt like adding weights to the tears already pooling behind her lids. She really tried, had ample practice, to brace her body against them, went rigid, fists clenched, but the steadying breath never came. Instead, a sob forced its way from her lungs, up her throat, parting her lips, and it rang through the quiet like a lone siren call to all that anguish, all that pressure, her hopes, dreams for a future, her family.

The first drop fell, leaving a dark splotch mark on her pants, and she put a hand to her forehead, dug her fingers into her hair, just as more tears followed. She cried, cried for everything. She cried for herself. Cried for her daughter. For Tony. She felt Jack's arms encircle her, draw her in, and she had nothing left to refuse this small comfort, a friend's embrace, and let go. She cried through lids pressed shut, hard against her shoulder, muffled whimpers, just on and on. Even as she quieted and her eyes started to dry, she remained, slowly coming back up.

"It's okay, Ziva. It'll be okay," Jack whispered, flexing her arms around her. "You'll be okay. I promise." She repeated it once, twice, then silently.

Mouth agape, pushing air back into her longs one big batch at a time, Ziva nodded. She nodded even if she didn't know whether she believed her or not, then straightened back up.

Jack watched her gather herself, hands on her face. Breathe in. Breathe out. In. Out. "You're not alone in this, okay? Not anymore," she said. "I know these past three years you've carried all this weight all by yourself. It's okay to stumble a little now. We'll be here."

Ziva's nod was slow, barely noticeable. "Thank you."

"It's literally what we're here for."

A small smile tugged at her lips and she released her face from behind the shield of her hands, peering at Jack through bleary eyes. "I mean it. Thank you."

Jack nodded, patting her knee. "You ready to go back up?"

Ziva took a deep breath. Her headache had not let up, now shooting all the way to the inner crust of her forehead. Her mouth felt dry. Scabs of salt were sticking to her lids. It was no use, wasn't it?

"Let's go."

Jack got up first, huffing against the pain of age in her movement. "This should've really been discussed over drinks," she quipped, offering her a hand.

Ziva laughed a little. "Is that an invitation?"

Jack threw her head back, clearly game. "Planter's, six o'clock?"

"I'll be there."

She could feel Jack smile beside her as they ascended the stairs, one by one, up five stories but not all the way to the squadroom. They walked out into Level 4 and Ziva went straight for the women's bathroom.

"I'll see if I can scrounge up something for that headache," Jack said as she turned towards the elevators. Her expression clearly did not allow for protest.

"Thank you."

"And Ziva?" Hand on the door, she turned again. "You done surviving. It's not about that anymore."

They parted but her words resounded in Ziva's head as she proceeded to wash her face, balking at the red blotches on her skin, the rims around her eyes. Willing it all to go away, she pressed a triple-layer of wet paper towel against her face, taking deep breaths and felt, for a moment, like screaming. But then she just crumpled it up and tossed it in the bin. So what if everyone could tell? What, really, was it to her? She pulled her hair out of the tight ponytail she had fixed it in earlier and scrambled her locks with open palms and pointed fingers. Snapping the hair tie onto her wrist, she raked her curls off her forehead, leaving in a tousle.

She walked up the last flight of stairs and returned to the bullpen. Torres and Ellie were at their desks — Gibbs and McGee still nowhere to be seen. They both tried not to be too obvious as they watched her, eyes wide and inquisitive, but mood cautious. She found an aspirin pill next to a glass of water waiting on McGee's desk, smiled, and gulped it down in a single sip. When she sat down, she watched a meaningful glance travel between Ellie and Torres and couldn't help be reminded of the many glances that had traveled out from behind that desk and all that they had meant.

"You know what," Torres suddenly announced, getting up. "I think I'll go get myself some… Gummy bears."

He had barely cleared the first partition wall when Ellie shot up from her chair and walked up to her, laptop in hand. "Are you okay?", she asked, concern lacing her voice. "Jack said she found you but— I'm really sorry about earlier, we really shouldn't have—"

"You didn't know, Ellie. It's fine", Ziva stopped her and tried to offer a reassuring smile. "This is on me. With Dillion's hearing coming up, I just—"

"That's what I wanted to talk to you about, actually," Ellie cut in and planted the laptop in front of Ziva. She jabbed the screen and a blinking map with rolling logs of code on black background appeared. "I've been working on this for a while but after today— Well."

"Ellie, what is this?", Ziva asked, eyes going wide as she absorbed the information on display.

"It's a program I designed," she explained, not hiding her well-pleased excitement. "I'm still working out some kinks. But once it's fully operational it'll allow us to keep track of Dillion and known handlers in the network."

Ziva gaped at her. "You mean for the case?"

"I mean for you," Ellie clarified, emphasizing each word. "I mean, Gibbs and you both."

"Ellie—"

"Look at this." Ignoring Ziva completely, Ellie skipped into a crouch by her side and zoomed in on Washington DC with a double-tap. The holding center where Ziva knew Bliths Dillion to be currently housed was gleaming in bright blue, the makeup of the image looking suspiciously akin to Google StreetView. "I tapped into police radio and traffic cameras. You can probably try to get into nearby computer logs and phone signals—"

Ziva chuckled. "This is actually crazy," she exclaimed and drew an arm around Ellie's, pulling her close. She looked up at her, wide-eyed and almost frantic, but Ziva just shook her head in turn. "Thank you, Ellie. Really. It will be fine."

"But—"

"I trust Orli," she insisted.

"But you don't trust yourself," Ellie countered, staring up at her. "You're thinking about leaving again, aren't you?"

Ziva sighed. "Ellie, it's been a long three years."

"You are."

"Yes," Ziva confirmed. "I might go off the grid for a little while. To take the heat off. Until they can make further headway on the network."

"Ziva, goddamnit. Will you please give yourself a break?", Ellie snapped, eyes wide again, and Ziva actually skipped backwards a little. "Forget this." She flipped the laptop shut. "I know you're scared, but you gotta be with your family."

"Ellie, it's fine," Ziva deflected. "There's just things you don't understand."

Ellie shook her head, refusing to give in. "You are scared, Ziva. I totally get that. But there'll never be a perfect time. Kids are an endangered species, that's kind of just it. I don't have any to make an accurate comparison, but I'm pretty sure that's what it feels like."

The assertion broke through Ziva's resolve, a small smile erupting on her face. "Pretty much."

"And it's okay to be absolutely terrified for that matter. But you have friends and family who will help you and look out for you," Ellie continued. "You just gotta give yourself that."

"Ellie—"

She stopped her with a glance. "Just give yourself that."

Ziva sighed, staring at her. She could feel herself still smiling, Ellie's dogged insistence claiming every ounce of her respect. She was even close to offering a single, vacuous "fine" when Ellie spoke again, knowing that she had to demand more of her.

"Just think about it," she suggested, getting up. "I feel like lunch. Want some lunch?"

Ziva could only smile and nod.

They decided to take the long route and walked across the Yard to the outer perimeter for the food truck parked on one of the side streets. They ate on the move, grabbing afternoon coffee on the way. Talking felt easy to Ziva, a routine they had honed in weeks prior, and she wondered again if all that could ever be her normal, again and in future. Stepping off the elevator in the squadroom, they were joined in laughter at a message Ellie had received from her most recent date when Torres swiped past them.

"Hey! You gotta come see this," Torres called back to them, ushering them over.

He led them over to the tv screens, all of them running some version of a "breaking news" channel. McGee and Gibbs were already there, silently staring at the feed up front.

"What's going on?", Ellie demanded.

"Dillion," McGee answered, turning up the volume on the main screen. Head swirling, Ziva only caught few odd words — "shooting," "one dead," "no further injuries," "on the loose" — as context and images evaded her.

"Guess Betancourt doesn't like his lieutenants in the courts," Torres remarked dryly. "Tempted with all kinds of deals."

* * *

Ziva couldn't remember ever having seen Vance's office that crowded. There was Vance, standing behind his desk, Gibbs close by, his usual guard, but also McGee, Torres, Ellie and her gathered around the large conference table. Silently and in the background, the large tv screen was still skipping between different channels and, judging by the subtitles, different languages covering Dillion's shooting. The official story had settled, a narrative developed. Dillion had operated an underground crime ring and been killed by a rival mark. All agencies were on the hunt for the suspect and yes, they had a suspect, even if they didn't really have a suspect at all.

"This isn't actually over, though," Ellie cautioned, her eyes briefly catching Ziva's as they had both been following the news feed. "Betancourt is still out there."

Vance clearly agreed, but his nod was short-lived. "With NCIS and Mossad, we have two agencies on him," he said. "I already offered a dummy version of your program to the FBI. We've crossed state lines and national borders at this point. Talking to the director of the FBI today, Europol tomorrow."

"They interested?", Gibbs asked, brows furrowed.

Vance pointed a prophetic finger at the tv screen. "Glory awaits." A lopsided smile formed on Gibbs' face and he nodded. Then Vance turned his attention to Ziva. "Orli's definitely made a name for herself with this. Back to a front-row seat."

Ziva nodded but chose to leave it at that.

"The DA's office is now looking to flip one of the other higher-ups," McGee explained, neatly segueing to judicial proceedings and Ziva was grateful for it.

"Raids still going?"

McGee nodded. "And we should be able to identify other lieutenants that way."

"And up their protection detail," Torres added and they knew he wasn't wrong.

After a quick update on the changes that had to be made to handover procedures, they filed out of the office, one after the other, Gibbs at the head.

"Ziva?"

Vance's call stopped her at the door. "Yes, Director?"

He looked at his watch but motioned for her to step back inside. So she did. "Your consultancy work ends with filing your report. Then you'll be free to go," he informed her, layers of meaning hiding behind administrative procedure.

Ziva nodded. "I will keep that in mind."

"There's always a demand for good consultants," he added. "In the future, that is."

"I'm sure." She offered him a small smile. "But I wanted to leave the badge a long time ago."

"Fair enough," he conceded, returning her smile. "So, will you?"

"Will I what?"

"Be free to go?"

Ziva looked at him, the man behind the shiny mahogany desk, lined with picture frames of his children and late wife. "I think I might slowly be getting there, Director."

He nodded and this time she was sure to meet his understanding. She tipped her head and left, finally, closing the door behind her. Survival, fear, freedom — her three stages of moving on. She was almost at the staircase, hand hovering over the railing with added purpose, when the sound chime of the elevator claimed from her at least a cursive look. And just then, like clockwork, she stood face to face with Orli Elbaz, dressed in her professional best, hair set, coffer in hand, lips pursed, as always, a purpose of her own. Their eyes locked and of the two Ziva seemed notably more startled by their chance meeting.

"Shalom, Ziva."

"Shalom."

Orli covered the remaining steps between them and moved in, hand on her shoulder, as she delivered a kiss to her cheek, first left, then right. Her smile persisted.

"What are you doing here?", Ziva asked. Old habits died hard.

"I am personally delivering the new liaison officer to Director Vance," she responded plainly, falling in before her. Apparently, Vance had never not planned on coming through. "Her name is Liat."

Ziva nodded but further inquire she did not. Was she the Liat she had met, worked with years ago? She found she did not care. It was not her place, not her playing field anymore.

"Mazel tov," she offered instead. "I wish her luck. NCIS changed my life."

"That it did," Orli agreed, then her head dipped a little to the side and she reached out again, returning a gentle hand to her shoulder. It felt almost maternal. "You did well, Ziva."

Ziva nodded curtly and stepped in close, eyes narrowed and voice low. This message was but for her. "If I ever see you again," she vowed, "I want to welcome you as a friend, not a handler."

"And thus it shall be," Orli confirmed, speaking just as quietly. "I guaranteed the safety of your family, Ziva. And I shall always keep my word to you." Ziva's eyebrows rose on instinct and Orli smiled, knowing those instincts only too well. "No hidden agenda."

Ziva's eyes bored into her, probing. But there was nothing; she would have to trust.

"Tov," she relented, letting go. "I will let you get on then." She coiled into the staircase but took only two steps, and stopped when she saw her chance. "Orli?", she called back up to her.

"Yes?"

"I couldn't help but wonder how Betancourt could have known. No one knew when Dillion would be moved. That was the DA's condition. Both time and date were classified intel."

Stepping closer to the landing and looking down at Ziva, Orli gave a slow nod. "One can never be really sure of such things. Loyalty is a rare commodity, yes?" She tilted her head. "But I shall not make the mistake of thinking that what you did for me was out of loyalty, Ziva. You have paid your debts to this life. I truly wish you nothing but the best."

Ziva ignored the churn and unease that settled in the places beneath her diaphragm where the teachings of Gibbs' rules, especially those in the higher #30s, had taken embodied root. Instead, she offered a nod.

"Give Tony my regards," Orli said, putting an end to their conversation.

"I will."

"And Tali."

"She adores the book of Hebrew lullabies. The one that arrived from Tel Aviv in time for her birthday this year," Ziva said, a small smile on her face.

"I am so glad to hear it," Orli replied.

Her genuine smile let fade, but for a moment, the orange-white gleam of the squadroom, her business suit, the supple tone of her voice — and God only knew what she carried around in that coffer. For a moment, then, they were back in Be'er Sheva, drinking tea from her mother's set of Turkish tea glasses, while they watched in unison and with matching smiles as Tali explored, muttering and mesmerized, the seedlings Ziva had planted days before under Orli's guided supervision.

"I thought you would like to teach her the ones Rivka used to sing, just from memory," she added. "Now you have the time."

Again, only once again, Ziva nodded her head. And this time she turned for good, leaving it behind her.

* * *

"You're not beating yourself up, are you?"

McGee dropped his question right out of the blue while she angled his cart into aisle #3, as directed by the store's overly chipper manager. Neither of them had foreseen the dangers of asking for directions to the diaper section or that they would end up with a detailed recital of brands, appraisal and assorted risks for different wipes, powder, blankets, changing tables, and the biggest onesie selection in the county. Clearly, the fact that she was a woman, McGee a man, and that they had entered the store together, could only mean that they were new parents hunting for baby's essentials. Contrary to the manager's beliefs they had ended up in the story following Delilah's — definitely not-frantic but unmistakably insistent — call an hour earlier. The twins had both developed rashes and their pediatrician had attributed it to their brand of diapers.

"I promised to help you. But I have had my fair share of heart-to-hearts today, M'Gee. And I assure you, I will leave you with Manager Steve this instant."

"Oh please, don't," he begged, turning to her. Alarm had risen in his eyes. "I won't be able to say no. I'll end up with a car full of stuff we will never need and we won't be able to afford food for a month. Don't leave me."

Ziva chuckled and pursed her lips, continuing to push the cart down an aisle stretching the lengths of a football field (she had definitely not missed the sheer size of American supermarkets). Halfway through, they arrived at a bright colorful show of baby faces and a breathtakingly enormous selection of diapers. She watched in bemused silence as McGee sorted through all of them against the images in multiple open tabs on his phone, muttering about star-ratings and reviews.

She gave him a few minutes, remembering with little fondness her own discombobulated forays into the baby/toddler sections of any store or supermarket both before and after she had given birth. While pregnant, she had found herself fending off an obstinate number of people, mainly older women, who had taken her bulging stomach as enough of a reason to offer unsolicited advice and innumerable words of caution. Later it was often Tali herself, cranky and tired beyond words and without words, who had thrown tantrums and tirades, never one to be content strapped into a carrier or cart. Looking back on the two years she had been allowed to be her daughter's full-time mother, it had become abundantly clear to her how little it all mattered in the end.

"These worked great for Tali," she asserted eventually, grabbing a brand (20% off!) from the lower shelves and holding it out to him. "They're reusable, so it'll be a bit of an adjustment. But you can always go back once the rash has cleared."

McGee gaped at her, the bright green package set between them. It looked as though he needed a moment to square the idea of his friend, Ziva, with the idea of Ziva, the mother. Ziva, for her part, ignored his momentary stupor and just pushed the diapers into his arms.

"Take one and just try them, yes?", she suggested, shaking her head at him.

"Could you—"

"Show you how to do it?" McGee nodded and Ziva just chuckled. "Of course. That's why I came along."

Billowing on the successful completion of their most urgent task, McGee was hit with a culinary stroke of genius. Seeing as they were already at the store, they quickly appended a full grocery run to their mission.

"I was there, you know? I heard what Dillion said to you," he suddenly continued. Ziva did her best to ignore him while pressing down and selecting some peaches. "You're not actually listening to her, are you?"

Ziva tossed the only ripe ones into the cart and looked up at him. "It's not that," she responded. "Or it's also that, but it's more than that." She had never sounded more like Tony.

"So what is it?", he demanded, stopping her, for once, between the dairy and the frozen foods. "And don't tell me it's nothing cause you've been acting off ever since that interrogation."

Her eyebrows rose. "I was not going to say it was nothing." True, for what it's worth.

"Okay then." He gave her a small smile.

"It's just...all that I have done and all my fears for her. I have been so busy trying to keep her safe. When I have just hurt her in the process, haven't I?", she said, close to nonchalant. It felt like fact at this point. "Look at the safety I have given my daughter. She's growing up without a mother."

McGee shook his head, having none of it. "She _has _you, Ziva. All this time, she's had you. You've been through therapy for her. You've literally fought the monsters under her bed," he protested, both hands suddenly on her shoulders again. "You have to forgive yourself."

"I've been trying, Tim," she insisted, eyes wide. "That was the whole point of leaving NCIS in the first place."

"Then why are you going back on yourself?", he asked.

Ziva laughed, the absurdity of the situation under bright skylights and right next to the artisan cheese getting the best of her. "Because it's not that fucking easy," she exclaimed, sighing and shaking her head.

McGee tossed his head back, startled but smiling. "I don't think I've ever heard you curse in my language."

She shrugged. "It felt right in the moment."

"You've been spending too much time around Tony."

"Not nearly enough," she replied.

He looked at her, sadly almost, and she reached for the cart behind him, eager to move on with their day. She was looking forward to dinner with Delilah and the twins. He wanted to say more, she could tell, but because he was McGee and she was Ziva he stepped aside eventually and they resumed their foraging. They proclaimed their satisfaction to Manager Steve at the checkout and used the twins, fully devoid of shame, as an excuse to bid a quick goodbye and "see you again!"

"So, how'd you do it? Tony and you?", McGee asked as they were loading groceries into the trunk. No, he clearly wasn't finished with her yet.

She looked over and for a moment she glimpsed the young agent — a Probie in Tony's eyes and so eager to prove himself — and not the seasoned Senior Special Agent who had to think about a way to square his career with his budding family. She almost expected him to be biting heartily into a Nutter Butter, just for a moment.

If only all of his questions were that easy. "No more deal breakers," she replied. "We had to try because of Tali. So we faced it. We didn't run. We had both wanted it for so long."

"If you'd both wanted it, why did he leave you in Israel in the first place?", he shot back, truly curious.

Ziva realized that Tony had never told him, had never shared that memory even with McGee. It filled her with only more guilt to think that it was only she in whom Tony confided. What a loss it had been, all those years, to lose not just a lover, but a best friend.

"I asked him to leave. He wanted to stay," she replied, blinking against the sun. "I'd done the same to Gibbs years before. Making them leave me and then thinking I deserved to be left. It wasn't a healthy pattern, to say the least."

"Really not," McGee agreed, slamming the trunk shut.

Ziva shrugged, years of recognizing and stopping it from repeating now between her and that decision. She couldn't say whether it had been good or bad. It just was.

"He went to save you," he said.

"He did. He always did," Ziva confirmed, a smile on her face. "But that's no way to have a relationship. We weren't in the right place. And then, what I thought was our goodbye turned into a new beginning."

Getting into the car, McGee flopped back against the headrest and looked at her. "How'd that happen? Us having these heart-to-hearts in the middle of a parking lot?"

Ziva chuckled, shrugging innocently. "I don't know. Things change, I guess."

McGee nodded. "Tony knows," he said, turning her eyebrows skyward. "That the case is over. That you're done. I called him earlier."

"McGee—"

"Call him," he insisted, already holding out his phone. "Get them to come. Give him a chance to take you home."

Want and need suddenly confronted each other, like a duel on hot sand, as Ziva stared blankly at McGee's phone. It just wasn't how they did things. Once she got back from a mission, she called from the airport, where it was safe, she was safe, using a payphone, always a different one. She didn't call him just from anywhere. Tony and Tali didn't come to meet her. She got back, she visited. They didn't go home together.

"Last number I called," McGee continued, unlocking his phone. "You need this, Ziva. You all do."

She looked up at him, found him smiling. He was a Probie no more. Taking a deep breath, she dialed Tony's number, his French cellphone whose number she had already and easily memorized. It rang, once, twice. Maybe he was out? Ring. At the park with Tali maybe? What time was it? Ring. He was probably picking her up from preschool right now.

"Hey, Timmy." His voice. Sudden and nonchalant. "Twice in one day. You miss me?"

"Hello Tony."

The silence on the other end was absolute, as if he had forgotten how to breathe.

"Ziva."

Just her name. Was this their new normal? Phone calls and name calls?

"How are you?" She couldn't think of anything else to ask.

"I'm good. Just waiting for Tali. It's raining like hell today. You should see her in her new yellow Wellingtons. She looks like she turned the sun upside down." He was rambling. She smiled. "She'll be thrilled to hear you."

"No, Tony, don't." Her smile faded. After a day like today, she wouldn't be able to keep it together. "She doesn't need to hear me break down."

"Break down? Are you okay?" His concern for her was so thick, so palpable, she momentarily lifted the phone off her ear.

"I am good. Really good, actually. It has just been an emotional day and hearing Tali—"

"Okay," he conceded quickly. It was one of their newest tricks: acceptance, no questions asked. "So did you just want to hear my voice? Cause I don't blame you."

Thus her smile returned. "I actually wanted to," she started, glancing over at McGee. He certainly looked mighty proud of himself. She shook her head at him, but continued anyway. "I wanted to suggest that you and Tali come here."

"Come? As in, come to Washington?", he blurted out. "Come to _you_?"

"Yes," she said, words becoming strange. "To come and... _Get _me." Suddenly his voice dropped and ambient gnashing filled her ears. "Tony?"

"Yeah, I'm still here." His voice sounded distant amid incessant crackling. "I'm booking right now. Typing and clicking as we speak." She chuckled a little to herself. His voice returned, clear as possible, a minute or two later. "Just gimme a day to sort out preschool. I'll text McGee the flight details."

She nodded, knowing he couldn't see her.

"And Ziva?"

"Yes, Tony?"

"Counting to 750,000 should suffice."

* * *

She parked the car by the curb as she had done every night in the past three and a half weeks. There had been no alcohol in either of her drinks, despite the barkeeper's incessant protests, but she still felt light-headed. Walking up the driveway, she noticed the glare of lights emanating from the back of the house, too bright to be merely the gleam of kitchen lights through the back door. Keenly aware that she was, once again, only carrying a knife at her ankle and could not, as she had instinctively done, unlatch a gun holstered at the hip, she crept around the side of the house to investigate. Torso turned sideways, left foot forward, right foot trailing, side-step, side-step, she didn't know what she was expecting. But what she found was a surprise of the special kind.

There was Gibbs, working under the garish white glaze of a tripod-mounted floodlight. It looked, at first sight, like a new woodworking project. True, the basement was chock-full with parts and the skeleton of another one of his boats. But she had never known him to outsource his work to the backyard, and in the middle of the night at that.

Shuffling closer, she realized that it was not at all a boat that he was working on. It was a play set.

"Are these pre-cut parts?", she asked before she could stop herself.

"Yup."

His nod was proffered absently as he went back to measuring a row of cedar-textured boards that he had lined up against the fence. There was the green synthetic cloth attached to green metal chains for the swing, a heap of bolts and screws next to colorful hard plastic joints, next to a green-yellow-red slide, next to what looked like a canopy tarp for the top.

"Why?", she asked, not sure entirely what to attach to her question. Why is this in your backyard? Why are you doing this? Why are you working in the middle of the night? Instead, Ziva stepped forward and dully repeated her initial question. "Why?"

"Can't build a new one in just two days." Matter of fact.

Ziva tossed her head back, confused. "Did McGee call you?"

"Nope."

He flipped two logs over and grabbed a handful of nails from the tool belt around his hip. Ziva stood there for a few more seconds, watching him rhythmically and repeatedly hammer down on nails, one-two-three, sit, one-two-three, sit. Then she slipped off her jacket, threw it over the back porch banister, phone on top, and stepped up to him. Gibbs offered her some 120-grit sandpaper and motioned for the assorted logs off to the side. Ziva just quirked an irritated brow. With a lopsided smile, he reached behind him for a wood saw and nodded instead towards some wooden panels bridging two work benches in the middle of the driveway.

"I couldn't let Tali grow up in a house that was falling apart," Ziva explained needlessly, accepting the implement and getting to work. "No one else was going to do it."

"Not a city girl?" He didn't turn away from his task to speak.

Ziva shrugged. "I always loved Be'er Sheva," she replied, doing the same. "Tali, Ari and I spent every summer there while my mother was still alive. It was hers, you know? My father did not have much to his name when they met."

It wasn't information that was at all necessary or of any consequence, to Gibbs or to anyone. But it was a detail of her life growing up. It felt odd, and oddly freeing, to just be, for once, maybe forever now, a woman with a past that was part of her history. Gibbs didn't even need to respond, and he didn't, as was his type. But that was just as well. They worked alongside each other for a good long while, only stopping for a glass of water or a break of sweat. And even then they didn't really talk. It was a comfortable bookend to the rest of her day. It didn't quell the need she did feel, however, to bring some things out into the open.

"I _am_ sorry, Gibbs. For a lot of things."

She turned at his, and so did he. She could see in his eyes that his first instinct was to remind her of rule #6, but he thought better of it. She was grateful for it, no need to rebuff him; she had learned other lessons since then.

"Could've just come clean," he shot back, returning to the wood he was working on. Sturdy, durable and not easily broken.

"I told you. One of the first things I told you when I got here," Ziva replied. "That I was doing this for Tali."

He shrugged. "Could've told me the whole story."

"I don't think I could, actually. I was fighting for others for so long. First Mossad, then NCIS," she mused, not sure what her response would be when she started. She hadn't thought about it. But he had a right to ask. "For the first time, this was all about me and _my_ family. I just got used to doing it alone, I guess."

She watched, behind his back, as he nodded. And she waited. Waited. He didn't turn again, so she continued anyway.

"I'm sorry that, in doing what I thought was right, I hurt you also," she said. "But I'm not sorry about what I did, Gibbs. I'm not sorry that I left six years ago."

He tossed his head to the side. "Left a whole lotta people in the lurch," he mumbled.

"I did. And I accept responsibility for it," she agreed, stepping closer. "But Gibbs, I wasn't healthy. I continued to not be healthy for a long time. I was dying. If I _had_ come back, I would have died."

At this, and no clearer could she have said it, he did turn around to face her. "You really think that?"

"Yes."

There was no resentment in her voice. Acceptance had been the hardest lesson to come in her time since, but she was now a long way from all the regrets and the faces that had haunted her at night. It would always be her issue to bear but she had changed. Back then, the gun under her pillow had served dual function, against the living and the dead. Now, now even the knife strapped to her ankle felt uncomfortable.

"You had family to help," he challenged.

The gleam from the floodlight was casting half of their faces in dark shadows. She lifted her hair back, leaving herself open for him. "Love isn't enough, family or otherwise. It cannot mend a broken life. It will just...wither. I wasn't healthy enough to love anyone just then," she wasn't reciting her heart but her love, the lesson she had learned alongside Tony in the years since. "After what happened with Ilan, I couldn't keep going like that. Whatever I had done before that, however far I had come, I just slipped...so easily. Nothing, no one was holding me back."

She watched Gibbs' frown appear but stopped him. "That had nothing to do with any of you. It had everything to do with _me._" It felt like a plea. "Letting it all go was the only thing that made sense to me. My father had gotten to me so young, I had to go all the way back."

Ziva braced her palm against her chest, willing words she had taken years to uncover out into the open and cast them on their way to the only person left on earth she considered a parent, her father. Had he born her words, years ago, like the sturdy and durable rock that they all considered him to be, this time he could not. She watched him unbuckle the tool belt and drop it onto the ground. Then he sat on a pile of logs, forearms light against his thighs. She hadn't expected that. And just then Jack's words came back to her: _"You might want to exercise some caution."_

She was a far way from the woman who, like a little girl at the desk of her father, had pleaded with him to forgive her, to understand her, to stop accusing her. They had changed. She wasn't that little girl anymore. She was a mother, and she had warred like a mother. She had demanded his acceptance without realizing that it didn't change anything for her whether he granted it or not.

Ziva sat down beside him under the weight of a deep sigh. Caution looked different, she realized.

"You've been so afraid of anything changing for so long, Gibbs. But things, they just change," she spoke softly. "They just did, without you there. I left, Tony left, Abby left. But we are all still here. We are still your family. But you cannot pretend these things aren't happening by just holding on to the rules hard enough."

She reached over, a gentle, practiced hand. A mother's touch, a daughter's will. She rested it on his forearm and he didn't flinch away from her. Maybe this had been it all along. Maybe bullets weren't the real attempt on Gibbs' life. Maybe she was the only one who could understand what it meant to be haunted by their ghosts.

Maybe this was her real chance to save a life.

"Maybe we don't need you to be this immovable rock for us," she suggested. "Maybe what we all need the most is to see you happy."

He straightened his back and for a second Ziva thought that he was going to push her off. But under the damning gleam of the floodlight it took her a moment to realize that tears had formed in Gibbs' eyes.

"How'd you do that?", he asked, voice hoarse as a whisper.

"I don't know, Gibbs," Ziva replied. "But maybe we need to accept that Dillion was right. That what we have done since, it doesn't change what we have done in the name of revenge and loyalty. That doesn't make it right. And we just have to accept that. Feel the weight of it."

He didn't nod or speak, but in the nightly breeze his tears never fell.

"We didn't deserve the loss we suffered. We deserve happiness, Gibbs," she insisted. "You have to let yourself off the hook someday."

He pushed his head back, looking at her through hooded eyes. There it was: that small, lopsided smile.

"Are you, kid?", he asked.

She sighed. On days like today, it was a little harder to be certain. "Sometimes," she replied truthfully.

He placed a hand over hers, nodding slightly.

"Okay."

* * *

Chapter 5: **[Tali] **\- Chapter 6: [Epilogue]


	5. Tali

** **Tali**: Moving On **

If Ziva's Kidon training had made her observant and still, the nimbus of Tali had the very opposite effect. Ever since the flight screen had confirmed the Paris plane as "landed," Ziva's eyes hadn't stopped flittering across the heads of travelers as they spilled out into the airport arrivals area. She didn't care for any of them, not seeing their faces, not assessing their gait, not gauging their intent. She was seeking only one target: her daughter's 3'4'' frame. They had been waiting a good while, the plane over forty minutes delayed. McGee had been gracious enough to leave for the bathroom half an hour ago and had come back bearing a bottle of water. At least she now had something to hold on to.

"Is she used to flying?", McGee asked, standing to the side.

Ziva didn't turn, but nodded. "Tony takes her to visit Senior every chance they get. Or Senior travels with them. When Tali was younger it would just take her mind off things. Now, it is normal to her. Trips with Abba." Ziva shared a look with McGee. She had yet to witness her little girl on a plane, but Tony's animated retellings boded well. "Tony swears she is a right professional. Always trying to do everything on her own, of course."

"Sounds like a challenge on a ten-hour flight." The thought of taking the twins on that long a journey in cramped quarters drove a look of dread on his face.

Tali's tantrums felt unparalleled, for sure. Ziva could only imagine the destructive force they would unleash on as fragile an environment as the economy class of a charter plane. "Tony's so patient with her, though. And she is spending so much time around the DiNozzos, she has enough charm to—"

Ziva broke off. In the corner of her eye, a flurry of auburn curls. She jolted aside. From across the room, she met Tali's green eyes. The five-year-old darted away from Tony's grasp at once, his lone call of caution drowned out by her squeal. He never gave it a second try.

Tali shot through the crowds as they cleared a direct path between them. She was dragging a little red trolley behind her that took off every few steps, soaring over the carpeted floor. Her Star-of-David pendant had slipped out from under her sweater, flapping from side to side. Tony trotted after her, weighed down by the rest of their luggage, and offered quick apologies to the people left grating and irritated by his over-eager child.

Ziva had crouched down and Tali's sprint ground to a halt in front of her. Her arm was slung tightly around the thready stuffed dog Ziva had been defeated enough to buy, under a wail or protests and whining, at a Haifa market on a hot summer day many years ago. The little girl was panting through a bright, glowing smile.

"Ima." Tali sounded out the syllables of Ziva's title as if trying a favorite candy for the first time in years.

Ziva beamed at her daughter, tapping her nose (just like her own). "Oh Tali."

Tony just caught up with them and mimicked Ziva's pose. They shared only a brief glance, both focusing back on their daughter. The little girl was flittering through a show of expressions, clearly weighing her next move.

"What is it, Tali?", Ziva asked.

Her brow set in a deep frown. "Promise not to go away again," she urged. "Please, Ima?"

"Ahava—"

"No!" Tali took a step back and shoved Kelev between them. She knew that tone and didn't want any of it. "Abba and I want you to stay always. You have to stay now."

"Ahava," Ziva repeated, her favored term of endearment falling much heavier now. She reached out a hand and Tali grabbed on, as if determined to stay away but not quite ready to go all the way. "Sometimes we just have to go away. To work. Abba or I, or even you."

Tali shook her head, still withholding her gaze from her parents and staring at the floor.

"But what happens when we go away, sweet pea?", Tony asked.

"Hmm?" Ziva slowly traced her thumb across the back of the little girl's hand. "What _always_, always happens, Tali?"

The mid-afternoon bustle of a busy Washington airport carved out a small private world for them as people sauntered and skipped about the trio, hunched together on the dusty floor. Tali had ample experience with goodbyes and welcome-backs. They had enacted variations of their present display time and time again. She had to give, never was she asked. It just was. But things were different now. Never had they flown anywhere to meet up with her mother; never had they been anywhere together but at their house. Things just had be different.

Green eyes flipped upward at last. "You come back," Tali recited.

It was the answer that was expected of her, she knew, to a question she had been asked many times before.

"That's right, my love. Just like today. We always find our way back. Beseder?" Tali nodded, finally falling forward into Ziva's ever-awaiting arms.

"Ima." This time it fell like a sigh of relief.

Ziva circled her arms around the little girl, drawing her close. "I have missed you so much, ahava," she breathed, her lips lingering on her forehead in an urgent kiss.

"I missed you too."

Tali hoisted her arms higher around Ziva's neck and fitted her head into a little cavern against her chest. Ziva didn't move, allowing her daughter to take as long as she needed while she waited, gently rocking them both from side to side. When Tali finally slid back, she perched on Ziva's knee and fixed her parents with a look so stern they both set their backs straighter.

"Can you not go away and come back _all_ the time, then?", she suggested, her tone softer now and earning herself a laugh through unshed tears.

"You'll make a fine negotiator one day, munchkin." Tony wiggled his fingers and aimed for her tummy, his eyes wide with feigned innocence.

Tali giggled. Trying to escape her father's attack, she turned back into Ziva, hiding under the protective shield of her mother's arms and leaving her parents just this moment to catch each other's eyes, for real this time.

"She has a point, you know," Tony said quietly, brushing a few curls behind Ziva's ear.

"She does." Ziva leaned forward for a kiss and lingered, just breathing him in. "I've missed you too."

"You have no idea," Tony whispered, going back to catch her lips a second time before they both got back up. "Tim!", he exclaimed.

Tony stepped around Ziva to throw his arms around the man in question and patted his back. Knowing better than to intrude, McGee had stood back all this time to give them the family welcome he knew they all needed.

"Hey there, Tony," McGee greeted, returning hug and grin.

Tony knocked on his suitcase, pride busting out his chest. "10 kilos overweight at check-in," he proclaimed. "I have so many of Tali's old toys and some new ones in there, the McBabies will love it."

McGee laughed, clearly appreciative. "Thanks, Tony."

"Hey, munchkin." Tony then turned to Tali, who was standing with her back against Ziva and both of her hands clasped around her mother's arm. By now, the little red trolley had silently switched to Ziva's free hand. "It's your Uncle Tim, in the flesh."

It was just in that moment they all realized how much they had been focused on their respective families in the past few years, and how little they had kept in touch. Except for the odd phone call and, in Tony's case, telling his daughter stories about the team and the family she did not know, any active relationship with one another had all but fizzled out. It all came to the fore right there, in a five-year-old's timid reaction as they watched her inch just a little further back, pushing against Ziva's legs.

"Maybe you can say hello?", Ziva asked, bending down to lightly speak into her daughter's ear. Drawing a palm in little circles over her chest, she watched as Tali considered her proposition.

Taking a deep breath, the little girl summoned her strength and stepped forward then, extending a hand like a jousting spear. "Taliah DiNozzo-David," she chanted, her body turning all muscle, no arch. "Echantée."

McGee visibly swallowed the laughter that broke as grins on her parents' faces, hidden behind Tali's straightened back. Retaining the same air of formality, he crouched down and shook Tali's hand at eye level.

"Special Agent Timothy McGee," he introduced himself, adding with a smile, "But you can call me Tim."

"Uncle Tim?", Tali checked, eyeing him curiously.

"Sure." McGee shrugged. "If you want."

"Okay," she confirmed. "You can call me Tali."

"Deal."

Satisfied with their introductions and bristling with pride over her bravery, Tali swiveled around on her heels and returned to Ziva, who received her daughter with a bemused frown. "Echanté?"

Tali nodded furiously as she grabbed a hold of Ziva's hand and they set off towards the parking lot. "Nonno says always use my French with new people. Gets 'em on my side."

"He did, didn't he?" Ziva chuckled. She looked over at Tony and found him grinning back at her, a shrug all he could add to the matter. He clearly had not been invited to participate in that particular conversation between Senior and the little girl. "When we get home, I think you will have to tell me what else Nonno has taught you, yes?"

Tali nodded her innocent agreement, skipping along. "I gots so many stories," she declared, dead-pan, and stuck out her arm to impress the magnitude of her future tellings on her as-yet ignorant mother. "Abba?"

"At your service, sweat pea," Tony responded from two steps behind them. He deflected McGee's look of amusement with a silently raised index finger and a face of _'_"You just wait."

"Did you bring my pictures?"

"Of course," he confirmed. "They're all in your trolley."

"I made pictures to remember," Tali explained, flipping her attention back to Ziva. "Not all the time, though. Sometimes I forgot when I was tired. And when I was sick. But I got a picture for all the other times. Right, Abba?"

"Yes, a whole folder's worth," he said, catching Ziva's alarmed look over Tali's head.

Tali instantly flung herself into recalling all the times that she had sat down with a piece of paper or her Abba's tablet and had drawn a picture: "in art class" and "on the train," "during Disney movies with Abba" and "while doing a really big poop."

"When was she sick?", Ziva asked in a hushed voice, her daughter unwitting.

Tony shrugged, an apologetic look on his face as he rushed through explanations. "Three weeks ago? Four? It was just a bug. Every kid at preschool got it. So not a big deal. Just lots of puking."

Tali picked up on Tony's last few words and tugged on Ziva's hand. "I threw up _six_ times, Ima! That's more times than I've ever thrown up ever."

"I know it is. You did?" Ziva tried hard not to let concern seep into her voice seeing as her daughter was clearly fine, and remembering her illness with more pride than misery.

But Tony could see the absolute sense of guilt that set in Ziva's eyes. Three or four weeks ago she had long left France and been caught up in the middle of the case; had been, as always, unreachable. They had set up a signal for the utmost emergencies, but it was at Tony's discretion to use it and a stomach bug really did not warrant a call.

"Uh huh," Tali confirmed, as nonchalant as ever. "Abba cleaned it all up."

"He did," Tony added. "And he only almost threw up once." The change in topic had clearly darkened Ziva's overall demeanor and Tony quickly appeared on her other side, his hand hovering decidedly close to hers. "Just making up for months and months of baby spit-up. Don't worry."

As expected, his words elicited a small smile from her. She craned her neck to deliver a kiss to the corner of his mouth, taking him by surprise.

When they arrived in the parking lot, McGee unlocked the car and helped Tony lift all the luggage into the trunk. "Shouldn't there be two carseats in the McMobile?", Tony quipped.

"Not my car," McGee responded. "Ziva just asked me to drive."

"Of course." Tony smirked, angling his bottom half around the side of the car to stand next to her.

"I had him stop over at a store and bought one for Tali. It's for ages 3 to 10 with adjustable sidebars and backrest," Ziva explained. She was hunched over, her head tucked away in the car and buckling Tali in, just like the guy at the store had instructed. When she re-emerged, she found Tony's persistent smirk. "We can leave it with Gibbs, I thought," she added, ignoring him.

"Ziva got all mama bear on car safety issues. Can you imagine, Tim?" Tony tossed his comment across the top while still looking at Ziva, their eyes dancing in amusement.

"I can, actually," McGee retorted, rolling his eyes. Just like old times, then. "Now stop the googly-eyes and get in the car, you two. Gibbs is waiting."

"Dinner chez Gibbs?", Tony asked, taking the passenger seat while Ziva got into the back with Tali.

"He offered we stay with him instead of a hotel," Ziva announced, sounding nonchalant.

Tony turned in his seat, flashing Ziva a smile. "We can stay at Senior's place. He's in Toronto for the week."

"Nonno!", Tali added her excited approval, angling her head around the headrest of her seat. "Ima, guess what? I have my own room now."

"Oh, you will have to show me," Ziva played along, mirroring her daughter's excitement. With her eyes on Tony, she added pointedly, "One of these days."

"Okay then," Tony relented, holding up both hands.

"We will not even be there a week, Tony," Ziva said. "I have been staying there. It's a good thing."

Tony took a moment, then turned to face her once more. "As long as you're there, sweet cheeks, I'm really up for whatever."

* * *

The afternoon dinner reception on Gibbs' back porch, though not particularly roomy, was the most unexpected surprise. McGee had to excuse himself (Delilah's parents were in town) but Jack was there, and so were plates and silverware and napkins and, most surprisingly, crystal-shaped glasses. Tony wouldn't show — because even now that he had settled in ways Ziva had thought impossible when they had first met — he still dealt with emotion, around anyone but Tali and her, by hiding behind a quip, a jab, and a punchline.

So he asked, "Woah, who are we expecting for dinner?", instead of shaking Gibbs' proffered hand and expressing his appreciation, which Ziva could see erupt in his green eyes as soon as they rounded the corner, Tali holding onto both of their hands. Because it was hard for Tony to acknowledge appreciation; and it was hard for Gibbs to show appreciation, especially to Tony, whose character resembled his the least. But Tony had changed. Ziva couldn't pinpoint exactly when it had happened; it had been a gradual shift. Orange groves and Be'er Sheva and distance were not unrelated — but really, at the core of it all, Tali was the not-so-secret everything.

She, Ziva, had never needed him to be her savior; he, Tony, had always sought a purpose; like counterpoint, they had met on a final beat that was Tali.

In all that swell of emotion, some lingering and some unresolved, Tali remained oblivious and most enchanted by the play set that Gibbs and Ziva had finished earlier that morning. In Ziva's absence since, Gibbs had oiled the swing, fixed the tarp and sanded down the riskier edges. To the sounds of her daughter's wholehearted elation while exploring every nook and feature, Ziva had walked up to Gibbs and kissed his cheek.

"Thank you, Gibbs," she said, smiling at his utter and uncharacteristic look of surprise, the amusement over which she shared with Jack, exchanging unseen winks.

Tali was quickly beside them, peering up at Gibbs with wide eyes. "For me?", she asked, all emphasis and disbelief.

Gibbs took a knee before her. "D'you like it, princess?"

Tali nodded her head, curls bouncing, and she tipped forward, little arms shooting across Gibbs' shoulder. "Todah," she said, mimicking her mother and smacking a sound kiss on his cheek.

"Bevakasha," he offered in return and Tali showered him with the biggest, toothiest grin. Then she tilted her head, a quizzical dimple setting between her brows. "Who's you?"

"Gibbs."

"What's a Gibbs?"

"This is Gibbs," Tony said, crouching down beside them and pointing at the man in question. "Leroy Jethro Gibbs."

"You Abba's and Ima's friend?", Tali asked, returning to the explanation she had received in their MTAC call.

"Yes."

Tali reflected on this bit of information a little further. "Like Uncle Tim?"

"Yeah, just like Uncle Tim," Tony agreed. "Tell you what, kiddo. Why don't you ask Gibbs if he'll agree to have a special name just for you?"

"Mmm, like what?" Tali pursed her lips, clearly intrigued.

"Like… Uncle Leroy?", Tony tried, receiving a sideways scowl from Gibbs. "Or Uncle Jethro?"

Tali repeated the name in a whisper, testing its sound on her tongue. She then turned back to Gibbs with a bashful smile. "D'you wanna be Uncle Jethro for me?"

Gibbs' decision followed on the next beat and without moving a muscle. "You can call me whatever you want, princess."

"'kay, Uncle Jethro!", Tali declared, adding another quick hug for good measure.

Tali's affecting delight over the entire situation was all-encompassing. Not even halfway through her plate of pasta, no manner of skilled cajoling, nor promises of ice cream, could restrain her anymore. Excused under rouse of laughter, she barreled off into the distance. Having sat with her back to the yard, Ziva swiftly relocated and ended up perching on Tony's chair. With a steadying arm around his shoulder and his resting on her thigh, her eyes fixed on her daughter toing and froing, swinging and sliding, laughing and narrating her own play. Conversation resumed, Jack was asking Tony about Paris, maybe, but Ziva paid no more attention to them.

She caught Tali's eyes suddenly, an eager glimmer across the porch rail. The little girl hopped off the swing at once and scurried over, grabbing a hold of Ziva's hand as soon as she was within reach.

"Push me on the swing, Ima, please?", she requested, tugging her upright.

"Someone's not had her Ima in quite a while," Tony observed, releasing his partner with a light kiss to her hand.

Ziva laughed. "I will be back." She let her fingers dance across his jawline and leaned down for a peck on the lips, smiling.

She let Tali drag her over to the play set with all ceremony and skip. They quickly slipped into a rhythm as the little girl recited story after story, and Ziva pushed her forward, waiting, asking questions, proclaiming her amazement or simply, quite simply, being there. They were at it for an hour at least, or more, at one point switching to the slide and eventually ending up just sitting on the ground counting blades of grass and wondering how many there were in the world when Tony's appearance, crouching by their side, announced the end of dinner. The table had been cleared, Jack had left, and dawn was settling around them.

He flopped onto the grass beside them. "What do you say we pop in a movie, munchkin?"

"I choose?", Tali asked, eyes brightening.

Tony nodded towards the house. "Laptop's in my bag on the couch. You know the drill."

"Yuss!" Tali shot up, pumping her fists in the air, and dashed off-scene.

"Shoes off!", Tony yelled after her, but didn't turn to check. His eyes were already on Ziva's. He moved closer, aligning the upside-down V-shape of their legs, and leaned in as she did the same. They kissed, lingering for much longer than they had allowed themselves so far.

"I've missed you," he said finally, pulling back and circling his arms around their legs, drawing her ever closer.

She smiled and clasped her hands over his. "I've missed you too. I've missed this, all of it."

He nodded. "I know."

Ziva peered into his eyes; eyes that knew her so well. She watched him take her in, line by line, pore by pore.

"How are you?", he asked, voice soft as a whisper.

Ziva sighed, running a hand through her hair. "Tired. Very tired. And happy. I cannot believe—" Words failed her as Tali's voice, probably chatting to Gibbs, drifted outside in agitated batches. "That this is real."

He reached out and traced a finger across her hairline, all the while smiling. "Feel that? It's real. As real as it'll ever get."

She caught his hand, squeezing it. "I'm so sorry, Tony," she said and tipped forward, leaning her head on his shoulder.

A finger landed on her lips and she peeked up at him through fallen curls, noting the smirk on his face. "Now don't get carried away. No apologies, remember?" He dropped his head and replaced his finger with a kiss. "Rules or no rules, we're both sorry. And we both decided to accept that."

Ziva nodded and lifted herself back up. She smoothed her fingers through his hair. He had a habit now of leaving it longer and even more unruly. There was no part, no slickness, no edge. She lingered on the side of his face. "Can you believe we still get our chance?"

He laughed, nodding. "Just took us a while to get to the same place."

"Abba! Ima! I gots the movie!", Tali called from the back porch, waving at them from the porch.

"Our liege commands," he chuckled, grinning at her.

"We will be right there, love," Ziva called back, eyes briefly flittering to her daughter. He was still looking at her when she turned back. "We will have it all now."

"You promise?"

His eyes were so hopeful, so vulnerable in this moment, more vulnerable than he would allow himself to be for anyone but her. And in that moment she was so grateful that she still had that choice.

"I promise."

Gibbs had conspicuously retreated to the basement and thus they ended up with a heap of snacks on the couch, a family of three: Ziva's head on Tony's shoulder and Tali pressed into her side, head fitted in the crook between her breast and upper arm. They had propped up the laptop with some of Ziva's notebooks (her explanations outstanding) and a box of crayons. Tali's movie choice was followed up by Tony's, followed up by a cartoon to which they had both insisted Ziva be introduced for future reference.

"I think it's time for bed, ahava," Ziva hummed, brushing her fingers repeatedly through the fine curls at Tali's temple. The little girl was clearly fading fast to the tune of the credits.

Tali lolled her head from side to side, trying to deny the proof of her drooping eyelids. "Nah-uh."

Tony's and Ziva's eyes met in silent understanding and Tony reached both of his arms across Ziva and out to his daughter. "Come on, munchkin," he coached. "You heard your Ima. Bath and bed." Still growling in protest, Tali placed her hands in her father's and allowed herself to be pulled up.

"I don't wanna," she protested, now upright. The twitching near-stomp of her foot announced the beginnings of a fatigue-induced outburst.

Tony shook his head, unimpressed. He was quite used to his daughter's moods, especially when she was jet-lagged. "Do you want Ima or me to come with you?"

Tali held her father's gaze a little longer, her other foot twitching in anger at the knee. But Tony did not budge. She sighed dramatically, recognizing defeat.

"Want Ima," she declared at once. She settled the matter by sending a last glaring eye-roll at her father.

Tony just jabbed his thumb at the ceiling. "Bathroom's upstairs."

The little girl set off, ringlets flying, her every tread broadcast to the adults below. Tony shook his head, smiling at Ziva. "Isn't she a joy to have back in your life?"

Ziva laughed and got up, clearly dawdling a little to allow her daughter a head-start. She shot Tony a questioning look, a tinge of alarm in her eyes.

He just waved her off. "Same routine as always."

"Okay."

"You'll be fine," Tony encouraged her.

He grabbed her hand and she bent down for a kiss. They could hear Tali dispatch an audible demand for "Ima!" from upstairs, at a spectacular height of exasperation, and pulled apart with matching grins.

"On my way, love!", Ziva yelled back.

"Her stuff's in the little extra compartment in my suitcase. Don't let her fool you. I packed everything," Tony called after her as she vanished around the corner.

Upstairs, Ziva found her five-year-old daughter, butt-naked and with her hands on her hips, standing in the doorway of the guest room they now all shared.

"I have nothing," she declared through a grand sigh.

Ziva shook her head as Tali scrambled back into the room and quickly stopped over in the bathroom to start a bath. She trickled a few drops of soap into the first layer of water and watched for a moment as a thin film of bubbles billowed from the stream. Back in the bedroom, she caught Tali just in time before she had dumped all of Tony's shirts on the floor by the bed.

"Why don't we take another look, hm?", Ziva offered, crouching down and wrapping an arm around her daughter's middle to pull her away from sartorial mayhem. "Carefully?"

Under Ziva's instruction, Tali gently moved aside Tony's pants one by one until they uncovered the colorful treasure trove that was the little girl's assorted and Nonno-approved wardrobe. Tali went on to choose matching panties for the pair of lime green criss-cross pajamas Tony had packed. Wholly satisfied, Tali dashed from the room.

Ziva hung back and took a moment to sort Tony's pristinely pressed shirts, piece by piece, into a neat, clear-edged pile. With half the suitcase now empty she glimpsed, tucked away in the corner, a small jewelry box where Tali's rampage had excavated it from a heap of socks and underwear. Ziva brushed a fingertip over the lid, finding it lined with some sort of blue velvety fabric. Curiosity clutched at her with surprising, yearning force and she briefly debated whether or not to dare and open—

"Ima, the water!"

"Right, right. I'm coming!"

Ziva hurriedly stuffed the box back under Tony's socks and led Tali into the bathroom. She forgot, for now, all about the little black container while she sold a soap box and a spare tooth brush as worthy substitutes for the bath toys that didn't make the journey across the big pond. Ziva perched on the side of the tub, gently directing Tali's handling of soap and wash cloth. When she lifted the five-year-old out of the cool soapy water and wrapped her in a warm towel, Tali's energies had bottomed out. She barely lifted her arms and feet to be dressed in her pajamas, barely put motion on her toothbrush, and soon refused to abandon the comfortable position of her head against Ziva's shoulder. Humming a knowing sigh, Ziva picked her up, little legs wrapping around her middle, and carried her back into the bedroom.

She threw back the comforter with Tali mumbling into her ear. "What was that, love?"

"Miel au lait. Bevakasha?", Tali asked again, easing herself onto the mattress.

Ziva was at a loss. "I don't know what you mean, Tali."

"Miel au lait," Tali repeated, more forceful now. A deep scowl rippled across her forehead, her emotions flaring.

Ziva could only shrug, looking on apologetically. "I don't know—"

"Miel au lait." This time it was Tony, announcing himself as he entered the bedroom, just in time, with a mug in hand. He sat down and handed it to Tali, keeping an attentive hand close by as she eagerly went for the white-creamy contents.

Ziva sank onto the bed opposite him, a mix of confusion and alarm playing on her face. Tali was engrossed in a routine of taking a big gulp and stopping just long enough to swallow it.

"Milk with honey?", Tony proffered.

"We already brushed her teeth—"

Tony just shrugged, shaking his head. "We saw a movie the other day where the girl got milk with honey to go to sleep at night. And now we can't sleep without it. Like, ever. Like, not at all. Imagine that."

He added the last bit for Ziva's benefit and she smiled. She watched Tali greedily lap up the leftovers. "Finished?", she asked, receiving both a nod and Gibbs' patented USMC mug back. "What do we say?"

"Thank you, merci and todah," Tali smiled, a glint in her eyes. She patted Tony's hand before flopping back against the pillow at last.

"You're very welcome, sweet pea," Tony said and bent down to press a kiss to her forehead.

He handed her Kelev and Ziva lifted the blanket up so Tali could cozy up to the ever-favored toy before she tucked the ends in tightly around her.

"Story, please?", Tali chirped, looking up with hopeful eyes at both of her parents.

"What story would you like to hear, ahava?", Ziva asked, sitting by Tali's head and starting to brush her fingertips along the little girl's hairline.

"The big orange bear in the big orange house?", she requested, her eyes fixed on Tony.

"Ah, a classic," he proclaimed, asking, "Are you all snuggly?"

He proceeded to tuck the blanket further in around her with big hands and a wide grin, and Tali nodded and laughed, wiggling herself even deeper into the comforts of Gibbs' mattress. Tony took a quick but elaborate bow and started the story, voice careening in and out of different voices, tones, and volumes. Ziva just listened. It had been a while since she had last joined in a nighttime routine.

The tale was one of Tony's own making, never told in exactly the same words; constantly on the brink of surprise, but always the same arc. He had come up with it in the earliest days of his union with Tali, when he hadn't yet realized that those stories were not only a way to entertain the little girl during long nights spent awake, distraught by unmet demands for her Ima or woken by nightmares. The big orange bear with his three cubs, solving riddles in the forest and pursuing justice — stories like those were fast becoming a means for him to deal with his own memories and emotions.

Tali drifted off against Ziva's thigh not long into the second act. Tony brought the story to a quick and satisfying end nonetheless, as both Ziva and he allowed the moment to last, just enjoying their family be. They both decided to follow suit and go to bed early, draining as the day had been. In passing, Ziva grabbed one of his shirts to sleep in. He had even brought the lavender toothpaste that she liked so much but wasn't produced anywhere but in France. They moved around each other, easily attuned to the other's quirks. When she found him smiling at her from the shower, his hair wet and matted to his head, it felt like the most normal of things.

They took up positions on either side of their daughter. Tali, who usually slept with her arms and legs spread at odd angles, had quickly burrowed into her mother's side, with her legs drawn up to her stomach and her face by Ziva's chest. A bear cub curled into comfort. Ziva lay on her side with her head on one arm, facing Tony, the other tucked around her daughter's bum.

"She's missed you so much," he whispered over the girl's slumbering form, barely distinguishing Ziva's outlines from his daughter's.

"I just get so scared sometimes that she will grow to hate me for what I put her through," she confessed, her voice thin as a whisper and her candor couched in the darkness of the room.

"She will never hate you," Tony countered, grabbing Ziva's hand at the top of her pillow.

"Or resent me."

"She won't resent you either."

"I grew to resent _my _father."

The light from the streetlamps filtered through the curtains and slowly settled against them. Tony waited for his eyes to adjust, for Ziva to take form, and watched as she began lightly tracing a finger down their daughter's curls. A tiny baby sigh slipped from the little girl's lips as she wiggled a little closer to her mother, tucked away by slumber.

"Ziva, listen to me," Tony started again, giving her hand a squeeze. "She knows you're fighting for her. While yes, she might be the world's biggest cranky-pants sometimes, she adores you. You're her superhero. Do you even know what's on all the pictures she drew?"

Ziva silently shook her head. They hadn't even gotten to Tali's pictures yet.

"Every picture of when she's in school or at the park or at the movies, her with me or with her friends. In every picture there's a woman with long brown curly hair somewhere in the corner. With a long red coat like a cape, big black buttons, kind of just floating there in midair," he told her. "When I asked her about it, she said it's Ima, watching over us. So, naturally, I freaked out."

Ziva released a small, breathy laugh and Tony started drawing little squares on the heel of her hand.

"So I ask her, 'You mean like an angel?' And she shakes her head, all mighty and proud and so _you_. She said, no, silly Abba, not like our angel family. 'Ima's right here over there. Just making a shield around us so we can be happy and she can be happy when she's with us.'"

Feeling too raw to respond, Ziva stilled, just watching her daughter and seeing so much that was hidden from her, so much that couldn't quell her fears. How would she know what these years had done to her? How could she be sure that in all this time she had tried to shield her daughter from the ghosts of her past, she hadn't just allowed them to envelop her whole? She could not — was the truth so undeniable to terrify her — ever be sure.

"She knows you're fighting for her, Ziva. Every day."

She could hear him smile, a sigh on her lips. "I think we both wanted the same thing as parents, my father and I," she mused. "I don't think my methods were all that different from his."

"Eli was always fighting for something else. Something bigger than you," Tony held. "But for you, Ziva? There's nothing bigger than her."

She nodded, relenting. For now, she could leave it at that. Together, for a while, they listened to their daughter's deep, steady breathing. Tony had flipped icee again, was lying on his back, perfectly still. Ziva decided to test his state of consciousness. She squeezed his hand.

"Tony?"

"Hmm?"

"There's this jewelry box in your suitcase?", she said, speaking slowly.

"Hmm, yeah," he confirmed, nonchalant. "I bring it everywhere we go, just in case. I've had it for, maybe a little over two years now?"

The timing surprised her. "Was that when you stopped being 'still pretty mad' at me?", she asked, quoting him before she could stop herself.

"Yeah," he admitted, his voice not losing any of the lightness. He turned again, facing her. "I was out walking with Tali one day. Somewhere in the city, just a quick stroll. You were on that mission in Mexico. I remember cause every time I showed Tali where you were on that culturally ill-fated kids globe thing she would start quoting Speedy Gonzalez and she insisted on buying that Sombrero hat that was way too big for her and kept dropping over her eyes." Ziva smiled, squeezing his hand again. "Anyway. I was adjusting that damn hat for the hundreth time and there was this little jewelery shop. And I realized that I didn't blame you anymore. That I could accept it. So we went in."

"So Tali approves?"

"Oh, she picked it," he clarified, reaching over to brush a hand over his daughter's shoulder. "With maybe a little paternal prompting."

Silence took hold and she remembered their heated heart-to-hearts in a Parisian flat that felt so surreal, so out-of-the-world, even at the time. They got four weeks together, four weeks to start and work things out, and start something new. Then she had gotten orders to move out. For a year after the attack on Be'er Sheva they had just plugged away at their issues and resentments and emotions, while also trying to raise Tali, care for Tali, help Tali understand.

"Then I figured, you know, you told me you'd wait for me to be ready. Let me work it all out. So I'd do the same. Wait, knowing that it'd happen eventually." She had stilled, listening to him talk.

"So, do you?", he asked suddenly. She raised her head a little from her pillow, not understanding. "Approve of it, I mean?"

"I didn't look," she admitted.

"But then...are you?"

"Am I what?"

"Ready for the box? Ready for the contents?", he asked. "It's still a leap of faith."

She laid her head back down, taking a moment. Choosing her words carefully, she then said, "It is. But I need to let that fear go, don't I?"

"Okay," he whispered, gently entwining their fingers. "But you know I can't just give it to you, right?" He lifted himself up behind Tali's back, peering at her through the dark, grinning brightly. "I'll have to make it count."

Ziva pursed her lips, even though he could not rightly see. A playful smile ringing in her voice, she knew what to say. "I would expect no less of the man who, by his own admission, kills the proposal."

* * *

Ziva awoke the next morning to the faintest tingling around her nose. Consciousness dawned slowly, one sense at a time. She heard the small growl that punctuated Tony's every breath, still sound asleep. On the floor below, the house resounded with Gibbs' movements. The smell of his laundry detergent had mixed in with Tony's eau de cologne and the lilac hues that emanated from Tali's body. She was still right next to her, her little knee pressing into Ziva's thigh and Kelev's hair itching against her collarbone. When she pried her eyes open Tali's face appeared first, full and round and only inches from hers. She had a hand clasped over her mouth, trying to suppress the giggles that tickled Ziva's nose whenever they escaped in small, short batches from in-between splayed fingers.

"Boker tov, ahava," Ziva greeted her, brushing a kiss against her nose.

"Boker tov."

Ziva raised her head a little. The sun was barely filtering any light through the curtains. "You're up early, my love."

Tali shrugged. "Couldn't sleep."

Gripped by concern, Ziva raked her fingers through her daughter's thick mat of hair, lifting it off her forehead. She brushed the back of her hand across Tali's face, feeling her skin. "Bad dream?"

Tali shook her head, shrugging again. "Not tired 'nymore."

Ziva watched her, skeptical for a moment, then fixed a smile on her face. "Breakfast?" Tali's vigorous nod followed as expected, but Ziva put a cautious finger to her lips. "We need to be quiet. Abba is still sleeping."

Tali flipped herself over, eager to check for herself, then nodded, slowing her movements to confirm she was ready to accept the stealth mission presented to her. Ziva carefully lifted the comforter off their bodies and led Tali across the room on exaggerated tiptoes.

"Let's go see what we can find in Uncle Jethro's kitchen, hm?", Ziva suggested, enjoying the sound of Gibbs' new title on her tongue.

She set off for the stairs but Tali stopped her, locking surprisingly strong arms in a vice grip around her middle and burying her face in Ziva's side. Looking down, Ziva's hand instinctively found its way to her daughter's back, gentle touch and concern. But not so. Tali's bright, radiant smile peered up at her.

"I have my Ima back," she announced matter-of-factly, then let go just as fast and ran ahead, saying no more.

When they turned into the living room, Ziva's arm swinging with the happy skip in Tali's step, they found Gibbs already at the table, a cup of coffee steaming by his side.

"Good morning, Gibbs," Ziva greeted.

Tali scurried up to Gibbs' chair and he looked up from his paper, eyes peering over his black-rimmed glasses: first at Ziva, who smiled and shrugged, and then down at Tali.

"Good morning, princess."

Tali tilted her head, looking up at him quizzically. "Whatcha you doing?"

"Waiting for you," he whispered, then folded his paper and revealed, hidden behind it, an assortment of cereal boxes. "Couldn't find the one I saw you eat at home. One of these'll have t'do."

Eyes wide with glee, Tali released Ziva's hand and bounced over. The crown of her head barely reaching over the tabletop, she scrambled onto a chair and folded her knees underneath her body for added range. She started sorting through the boxes, one colorful temptation at a time.

"That was very nice of Uncle Jethro, wasn't it?", Ziva prompted, already retrieving a matching bowl and silverware to place in front of her eager child. In the mornings, she was indeed _all_ her daughter.

"Uh-huh. Thank you, Uncle Jethro!", Tali obliged and propped herself up on her hands, pointing tapered lips in his direction.

Reaching through his usual gruff, the gesture elicited a curt laugh and he leaned over. Dutifully, he presented his cheek to her and Tali planted a sound kiss on it.

She then held up the box of her choice. "This one, Ima!"

Ziva rolled her eyes at the bright yellowy orange box, ornamented with a radiantly smiling suns, and checked the ingredients. While peanut-free, Ziva heaved an inward sigh at the amount of sugar sure to pique Tali's already soaring levels of energy. It would have to do.

She ripped open the plastic bag and handed it back. "Go ahead."

Tali went and poured herself a bowl full of cereal, then directed Ziva as to the right amount of milk. Equipped with a certified "big spoon," she was soon munching on glittery star-shaped puffs of sugary air, content with the world. Only every so often did she steal a glance at Gibbs, who was sipping his coffee, intermittently returning the favor. Ziva joined the duo with a cup of tea and marveled at the simple joy of sitting opposite her daughter at the breakfast table. It hadn't been a routine occurrence, or really much of one at all, in the last three years. Ziva couldn't wait to break in new routines.

"Big plans for the day?", Gibbs asked in-between sips.

Ziva shook her head. "I just need to finish my report. Then I am done." The finality in her voice conspicuously encompassed much more than just her mandatory ROI. Gibbs nodded, again burying any further reaction behind his cup of coffee. Ziva smiled. "Which is not to mean that we will not be back."

A small smirk. "You better."

"Looks like I'm late to the party," Tony announced as he emerged from the upstairs, hair tousled and sleep only halfway driven from hooded eyes. It seemed the pull of an empty bed had been stronger than his need to catch up on sleep.

"Abba, look!", Tali called out, lifting her bowl of sloshy cereal. "Uncle Jethro got us breakfast!"

"Careful there, sweet pea," he cautioned her enthusiasm. "That's so nice of Uncle Jethro."

His smirk didn't go unnoticed by the man in question. "Don't get too cocky, DiNozzo."

"Oh, it is much too late for that," Ziva retorted slyly through pursed lips.

"You think, sweet cheeks?" He bent his head low over hers, leaning onto the back of her chair.

She hummed, eyes narrowing. "Oh, I know for a fact."

"The real question is, though," he started, pecking her lips once, twice, "Whether you think that's a significant disadvantage."

Mouth agape, a slight "heh" bubbled in her throat. "I did not say that," she replied, reaching up and raking her fingertips across his bearded cheek. When he pulled back, she responded likewise, adding another peck through an even larger smile. Last night's conversation had lifted the tension she had felt before, just enough.

"So what do we got, kiddo?", Tony asked, eyes still smiling and on Ziva, as he grabbed a bowl and spoon for himself and went to straddle the chair beside his daughter. Tali tapped the carton. Tony glanced at it in faux suspicion. "Any good?"

Tali nodded, immediately rerouting a dripping scoop of soggy sugary puffs into his direction. He snapped his jaws over the proffered spoon, a grinning crocodile, while absently wiping milky droplets off the table. Tali was eagerly looking on. Chewing and nodding in tandem, he flipped a finger against the side of his bowl.

"Fill me up, barkeep," he requested and Tali heartily complied, adding some more for herself.

No sooner had she completed her task than she clambered into Tony's lap. Balancing on his knee, she cradled the bowl to her chest while Tony angled arm and head around her, and they started heaping gulps of cereal into their mouths as a well-choreographed unit.

"So what was that about going to the office?", Tony asked eventually, looking up to find Ziva smiling at him. "What?"

"Nothing," she defended herself quickly, tossing her head back. But his eyes looked right through her. His face broke out in a large grin. With an inconspicuous wink he seemed to say, "You can have this all the time," and she believed him.

"Me," Ziva replied. "I still have to finish my report."

"Mmm, I promised the family a round of visits with Miss Munchkin over here," he said, patting Tali's arm. "What do you say? We steal Uncle Jethro's car and make the rounds?"

It took Tali a moment to realize the question had been directed at her, too engrossed had she become in half kind-of-reading and half really-just-looking at the cartoons on the back of the cereal boxes. Once the message hit, her eyes quickly shot up at Ziva.

"Ima?"

"Ima has to work," Tony offered in Ziva's stead, and she nodded.

"Going away?", Tali asked, alarm shooting into wide green eyes.

"No, my love. No, no, no," Ziva chanted and leaned forward, reaching a hand across the table. "I will go to the office to work. And I will be back in the afternoon."

"Take her with."

In unison, Tony's and Ziva's eyes flickered towards their former boss. His offhand suggestion had caught both of them by surprise.

"Are you serious?"

He shrugged. "I'll be there. Bishop, Torres, Kasie, Jack. Someone'll watch her."

"I don't know—"

"Why not?", Tony countered, already turning his attention back to his daughter. "Would you like that? Going to the office with Ima?"

"Yeah!", she cheered, propelling herself into a kneeling position on Tony's lap. Then tiny brows furrowed again. "What's 'n office?"

They laughed, even Gibbs' face breaking out in a grin. Their reaction only deepened the creases on Tali's forehead.

"Never change," Tony hummed into her ear and hugged her to him.

Tali wiggled herself free of his grasp, oblivious to the humor and impatient to receive an answer. She bounced a little in his lap. "What? What's an office?"

"It's a place where everyone comes together to do their work," Ziva explained, still smiling.

Her confusion acquiesced, Tali reclaimed her enthusiasm for the idea in the first place. "I'm gonna go work in the office with Ima!"

Between a twist and a turn, they made it through morning routines with only minimal cajoling. Sugar and excitement had done nothing to simplify the task, though, and Tali had slipped through their grasp four times before "Uncle Jethro" had taken to standing guard in the hallway until she had brushed her teeth, found the right kind of pants and allowed Ziva to French braid her hair. At the door, Tony and Ziva bade their goodbyes with a kiss and a mutual sigh of relief: Ziva, Gibbs, and Tali (in her federally approved car seat) filing into Ziva's rental, and Tony taking Gibbs' car for the day.

In the elevator they parted with Gibbs, who they had successfully made very late for his meeting with the director. A moment later Ziva stepped out into the squadroom, her daughter by her side, and nothing could have felt stranger in the way that it felt so different, in the way that it felt so effortless. Tali, of course, knew nothing of Ziva's feelings, too rapt was the little girl by the blue-ribboned visitor's badge around her neck, which bore her name and portrait, because Brendon, the security guard, had kids too and the equipment, and Ziva was wholly grateful for his quick thinking and making her daughter's day.

"Hey there, Tali," Jack greeted them.

She abandoned the report in her hand and slipped off her glasses, lowering herself to one knee before them. Tali had simply accepted Jack, much like she had Gibbs, as a presence and someone to trust, and let go of Ziva's hand at that. She quickly launched into a retelling of breakfast and Uncle Jethro and now being at the office. Ziva just let them get on with it and settled down at the desk, booted up her computer, no more than a furtive glance needed as she tried to square, in her mind's eye, the bullpen desk arrangement with the existance of her five-year-old.

"How about we let your Ima work and I'll show you around?", Jack suggested, looking up at Ziva for permission.

"Yes! Ima, can I?"

Ziva hesitated, turning to Jack. "Are you sure—"

"Absolutely." Jack nodded for emphasis. "I'll give her a quick tour." Her voice dropped to a loud conspirational whisper, nudging Tali's shoulder. "Maybe we'll find a chocolate bar on the way."

"Just no—"

"No peanuts," Jack finished for Ziva who closed her mouth and smiled. "I know."

"Okay, then," Ziva conceded, waving Tali over for a kiss. The little girl happily obliged. "I will see you later. Have fun."

All of her initial apprehension abated, Tali skipped ahead as Jack started pointing out the bay windows and the cubicles as they headed off in the direction of the break room. Oh Tali, Ziva thought, if only you knew how many inane and heartfelt conversations your parents have had back there. She smiled at the memories.

"What? No 'be good' or 'behave yourself'?", Torres remarked with a grin, entering the bullpen alongside Ellie. "Isn't that parental code or something?"

"Oh, she knows how to be," Ziva countered quickly. "I would much rather she be herself and get in some trouble than constantly mind being a good girl. I'm her mother, not her drill sergeant."

"Well, then," Torres recoiled, slowly dropping his backback behind his desk and sitting down, straight-backed. He tipped his head at her. "Never you mind me."

"Hear, hear."

Ziva looked up to find Ellie smiling at her from across the bullpen, which Ziva returned in kind before turning back to her computer. When Torres and Ellie left for their lunch break a few hours later, Ziva hung back, determined to finish early. She was only a few mandatory forms away from filing now. Which was just as well, given all the interruptions of the past few hours. Tony was making expected use of her recently purchased smartphone by beguiling her with text updates and voice messages and pictures detailing his morning visits with Delilah, the twins, Breena, Palmer, and Victoria. Putting her phone on silent and not responding was just not an option either. Too much did it remind her of him being here, alongside her.

Tali eventually re-emerged, trotting down the hallway with Ellie, Torres and McGee in tow. It was an odd sight, like a bite-sized general leading her army of giants, and Ziva had to chuckle out loud. The little girl appeared engrossed in heady conversation with Torres and her Uncle Tim.

Tali's quick appraisal of the people around her was maybe more Ziva, but this openness to throw herself into the midst of life was all Tony: Tony who lived like the adopted son of every elderly store owner, who did grocery runs for the single mom of a 16-month-old living in the apartment building next door, and Tony who took Tali on beach outings up north and children's theater in the city and neighborhood soccer games every second Saturday of the month.

"Chocolate's better forever and ever," Tali proclaimed, a tone of finality in her voice as she walked up to Ziva, sporting a bright grin. "Shalom, Ima."

"Shalom, my love," Ziva replied, lifting the little girl into her lap with a kiss. "Chocolate is better than what?"

"Oh, the guys just needed a professional verdict on the age-old question of gummy bear versus chocolate bar," Ellie readily supplied the answer, rolling her eyes at the two men who had lined up, rank and file, in front of Ziva.

"And she's made her decision, haven't you, Tali?", McGee asked, beaming at the five-year-old and holding up a hand, splayed wide, for a high-five. Tali lifted herself onto her knees and happily slapped at his hand. Then he turned back to Torres, squinting his eyes. "So much for old men have no taste."

Torres shrugged. "Never said you were old."

"Man in his prime, McGee," Gibbs crooned, entering the bullpen with a coffee in hand.

"Hi, Uncle Jethro," Tali greeted.

He smiled, stopping just to return her wave. "Hey there, princess. Enjoy your office time?"

Tali nodded. "Auntie Jack showed me the whole place and then I got invited to have a drink in the big office upstairs with the big windows. And Uncle Tim got me chocolate. Also, gummy bears are gross."

Ellie chuckled. "What a morning! Whatever will your afternoon hold?"

"Yeah, Ima?" Tali twisted herself around, looking up at Ziva expectantly. "What now?"

"Well, I am done here, so Abba is coming to pick us up for lunch. Does that sound good?", Ziva asked and Tali nodded her head, clearly satisfied. Maybe they would even pay Odette a visit. Might as well.

"On that note," McGee said, "Delilah called earlier. Apparently, Tony and her are planning a bit of a party?"

"Oooh, party time." Torres grinned. "Alright!" He reached up and adjusted the collar of his jacket, an excited glint in his eyes.

"Kids party, Nick," Ellie clarified, motioning towards Tali.

"Party's a party— Um, Gibbs?" He turned around slowly, motioning for the others do the same. It had taken them a while to notice Gibbs hovering behind them all this time, just sipping his coffee silently, waiting. Ziva had thought better than to alert them, enjoying rather the display.

"Dead skipper in a lake?", he said slowly. Another sip; another swallow.

"Grab our gear, boss?", McGee suggested. He carefully mimicked Gibbs' quiet tone, receiving but a slow half-nod.

The three of them immediately sprung into action, McGee cursorily apologizing to Ziva when he moved her out of the way a little, lunging for his backpack. They were at the elevator in under five seconds. Gibbs hung back, taking a moment to wave goodbye to Tali before following them out.

Into the silence that remained Ziva heaved a sigh, a perfect bookend, then smiled at Tali and placed her back on the floor.

"Come on, my love, let's get ready to leave."

* * *

The evening of their potluck party, Gibbs' house was all decked out in streamers and balloons. Tali's delight was only matched by her father's, who had taken it upon himself, alongside Delilah, to organize food, decorations, music and, if his conspirational whispers were to be believed, a full-on, two-stories-high cake. For days he had interspersed their intermittent touristing with preparations and Ziva had stood aside, just enjoying what he had declared Tali's introduction to the family. But it was, more so, and she knew, in many ways also a lot of other things at the same time: the going-away party he never got, the birthdays they had ignored, the completion of the case, the engagement party that no one could yet know about.

By four in the afternoon, the house was filled with people, chatter and music. In a quiet lull, Ziva found herself leaning against the doorframe to the kitchen, just taking it all in. There was Ducky relaying a story-of-old to Delilah and Breena on the couch; Jack and Ellie huddled together in the other corner as Ziva watched Jack's eyes flitter, again and again, to Gibbs holding Morgan and McGee holding John as the twins explored the brightly rainbow-colored balloons; Torres still fighting Kasie over the laptop holding the power over music; and her daughter, bow in hair and one of Tony's ties around her neck, being initiated into a board game by Jimmy and Victoria that Ziva had never even heard of.

Suddenly she felt a hand in hers and turned her head just in time to have Tony step up behind her, drawing her in. "Quite a sight, isn't it?", he remarked.

She nodded. "You did all this."

He shrugged. "Our daughter still taken hostage by the Palmers?"

"It appears so. And happily," Ziva confirmed as they watched her, face set firm in concentration, as she followed Jimmy's animated instructions.

"Well, Ms. David, care to skedaddle?"

She had no time to ask for the meaning of the word as he was already pulling her towards the back door, hand tightly enclosed in his. They took a stroll down the streets around Gibbs' house, just talking, laughing, being with each other. Basking in a new normal, they made plans for the future, if only for the next few days, and Tony booked a hotel in Paris sitting on a bench in a park two blocks down. Once they had circled back around, they went straight for the backyard.

"He just put this together one day?", Tony asked and sat down on the slide.

"We both did, yes," Ziva corrected him and followed suit. She settled between his legs and arched back, forearms on his thighs, and pushed off her shoes, digging her bare feet into the grass.

"Father-daughter project, eh?" Tony smiled, lightly trailing his fingers over her bare arms.

Ziva laughed, humming her agreement. "Maybe something to consider for you and Tali?"

"Ah no," he declined. "We have other virtues. We do a hauntingly beautiful rendition of _'Somethin' Stupid'_, if I say so myself. But it's a big commitment for future visits, isn't it?"

"You mean bigger than a family party?", Zive said, turning around to meet his smile. "But yes. Are you comfortable with that?"

"Don't I ooze comfort?", he quipped, but under her insistant stare he relented quickly. "You know why I didn't want to visit before. I had to figure out how to be a dad first. How to be everything; hers and yours. And I didn't want to have to lie to their faces."

"I know." She reached up, palming his cheek. Three years was a long time, but it wasn't forever. "We will change that now."

He nodded, drawing her closer again and she put her head on his chest. "You'll tell me, right? At some point?", he asked suddenly, a small voice from behind her.

Ziva nodded. "Yes. When we are home. When it's all done."

"But just to be clear. I walk down the street one day and Orli's there. Do I shoot her or talk to her?"

"You talk to her. Invite her for dinner even," she replied lightly. Suddenly his face hovered above her with a bemused expression. "Fine, maybe not dinner. But you can talk to her."

"Gotcha."

"There you are!", Tali called out. Hands on hips, she stalked down the porch steps. "I'm looking for you."

"And here you find us." Ziva chuckled. She held out a hand to her daughter and Tali covered the last bit of grass between them.

"Whatcha you doing?"

"Talking about Ima," Tony said.

"Ima need to leave again?", Tali asked quietly, her shoulders and smile sagging.

"No, not right now. Not for a long time," Ziva assured her, reaching for her hand and drawing her into her lap. They would tackle the ins and outs of going away and coming back one anxiety at a time. "I am going to stay with you and Abba now. What do you say?"

Tali whipped her head around, eyes wide with excitement. "Like live with us? All the time?"

Ziva nodded and Tali's arms flew around her neck. Ziva laughed and gathered her little body up, curling her tightly against her chest. It wasn't long, though, before she could feel the wetness of tears on her skin.

"Aww, hey. Hey. Shh, shh, shh," Ziva cooed and rubbed Tali's back. "It's okay. It's okay, Tali. Beseder. Beseder, ahava."

"Hey there, sweetness," Tony whispered, brushing his hand over her hair. "What's with the show of tears?"

Tali lifted her head and leaned back, bracing herself against Ziva's arms. She shrugged, kneading reddened eyelids between her fingers. That very gesture to fight away the tears was so familiar to Ziva, one Tali had adopted when just a baby, it never failed to remind her that her little girl was still just a little girl.

Tony put his chin on Ziva's shoulder from behind, looking at Tali with a small smile. "We'll have to make room for Ima now," he segued smoothly away from the tears and wiggled a gentle finger against Tali's jaw, eliciting a smile.

"She can have my room," she offered, a brave and hopeful proposition.

"Oh no, my love. Thank you, but that will not be necessary," Ziva declined sweetly. "I will share a room with Abba. He will not mind."

Tony smiled, leaning his cheek against hers. "No, he doesn't mind at all."

* * *

On their way home from the grocery store the day before, Tali had spotted the park two streets down from Gibbs' house, home to a jungle gym that glistened with bright yellow (bigger! better!) temptation in the afternoon sun. It only took the five-year-old until bedtime that night to work the full power of her bright green eyes and sweetest voice for Tony to give in and agree to take her there the next morning. Right after breakfast, only half a cereal bowl eaten, Tony and Tali headed out and left Ziva to her own devices. It was, she realized with some pause, the first time she had been completely without either one of them since they had arrived. Silence, she realized, had never been more unappealing.

She sought diversion in packing, marveling at how far their clothes and general stuff had strayed from their origins. She even found two of Tali's crayons stuck under the refrigerator and a pair of socks on Gibbs' work bench. Deciding on what needed a wash before it could take the journey, she put some laundry on, and since most of it actually did, she packed up her duffle bag and put it by the door while opting to fill Tony's suitcase slowly with the rest of their things. She spent the afternoon bustling between their temporary lodgings upstairs and hauling dried laundry up from the basement. Only when Jack and Gibbs arrived with boxes of Chinese did she break for lunch.

She texted Tony with an urgent signal to hurry on home and no ten minutes later could they hear Tali's voice coming up the driveway, wafting in through the open front door in excited waves. What she was saying they could not understand, but the loud flourish of her busy tales draw matching smiles on their faces.

"DiNozzo's daughter alright," Gibbs muttered, taking a sip from his beer.

A lopsided smile betrayed feigned irritation. Ziva just nodded, finding no refutation in her heart. But the little girl's chatter stopped abruptly.

"NO!", Tali howled.

Ziva whirled around, briefly catching Tony's eyes, no less aghast, then landed on her daughter.

"No, no, no, no!", Tali chanted and flung herself onto the duffle bag. She tore open the top flap and pulled out shirts and pants, discarding them all in heaps on the floor.

Ziva reacted more quickly than anyone else and jumped forward, a hand on her daughter's shoulder.

"Tali. Tali, stop. It's okay."

"No!"

Tali swung around, fixing Ziva with a mad glare. She slapped away her arm and hurled herself towards her feet, banging knuckled fists against Ziva's thighs. "You promised! You said no going away! You said you stay. You promised."

"Ahava, I'm not going away," Ziva tried, herself half-yelling and desperately trying to get a hold of her daughter's hands. But the five-year-old's frenzy proved an impressive adversary. To gain a better angle, Ziva tried to crouch but Tali shoved a forearm against her chest, pushing her off. Losing balance, Ziva had to reach behind herself to keep from falling over.

"Hey!", Tony yelled, managing to grab a hold of Tali's arms. "Stop this right now! You're hurting your mother."

Tony hardly ever raised his voice towards her and Tali stilled mid-movement. She turned to peer up at him through startled eyes.

"What's gotten into you?", he demanded, letting go of her.

"You promised," she wailed, turning back to Ziva. "I hate you!"

Ziva sank to the floor and Tali easily slipped past her. Ziva made no move to stop her from dashing up the stairs. They heard the angry patter of her crossing the hallway; the door to the guest room flinging shut. A thud echoed through the living room ceiling when her small body had dropped onto the bed.

"Ziva."

Tony's voice sounded as broken as she felt. He reached out to brush back the hair that had fallen around her face. Her eyes were brimming with tears when she lifted them up to meet his.

He made a move to kneel down, already reaching forward to embrace her, but she raised a hand to stop him. "Go to her," she told him, her voice desperately small.

"Ziva, you—"

"We got her," Gibbs chimed in, suddenly right next to them.

With one despondent glance at Ziva, who reassured him with another nod, Tony got back up. Gibbs urged him on, tossing his head towards the stairs. He locked eyes with his former boss for a moment, silent request and promise passing between them, then broke away to tend to his daughter.

Gibbs offered Ziva a hand and helped her over to the couch. She dipped forward on impact and buried her head in open palms. Hair on either side hid her face, but the straggly breaths that tore through her body spoke in her stead. A gentle hand was placed on her back and with a steadying breath Ziva drew herself back up. She scrubbed the tears from her eyes with less-than-gentle hands and brushed back her curls, finding Gibbs kneeling before her. He was staring at her so intently she had to look away. Jack was perched cross-legged on the couch beside her. It was her hand that was still resting on Ziva's back, still steadying her.

"I'm not leaving her again," Ziva pressed out through gritted teeth, strained and apologetic.

"We know," Gibbs said.

"And so will Tali," Jack added, rubbing her hand up and down Ziva's back. "This isn't the first time she's seen your duffle bag by the door, packed and ready to go. Is it?"

Ziva looked at her, the pain of her response already visible in her eyes. "No," she whispered.

Jack tilted her head, fixing Ziva with a sympathetic smile. "It triggered her biggest fear. She's just scared, a little insecure of your place in her life. Tony will talk her down."

"She has every right to be," Ziva huffed, sounding harder now. "I have left her so many times before."

"You had to," Gibbs insisted, bearing out the weight of his statement by placing a large hand on her knee, cupping it whole.

A sad smile formed on Ziva's face, shrugging. "Maybe I couldve fought harder."

"Once you could, you got yourself out of this," Jack maintained, leaning around Ziva to look into her eyes. "You did the fucking hardest thing any woman will ever have to do. You loved her and you let her go. She will understand that. Maybe not right now. But eventually."

"They don't like it," Gibbs added and Ziva realized that the Marine Gunny was speaking from experience. "But you make 'em understand."

Ziva stared at him. It made sense but it didn't. Because of one little fact, and the words tumbled out of her mouth like the most natural of accusations. "But I'm her mother," she said quietly.

Gibbs shook his head, having none of her tone. "And a good mother, if ever I saw one."

"And you're not leaving her anymore," Jack continued. "You're done this life."

Ziva gave a mirthless laugh, then threw her hands over her face once more. "I'm just so tired of all this," she moaned. "It won't stop. It's never stopped."

"Ziver."

Gibbs called out to her, his voice as soft and inviting as it had been that first night down in the basement. It called to her and she lowered her hands, gaping at him. Through sagged, watery eyelids she challenged him to assure her of something, anything, for her to believe — because it was he who said it.

"It's done. Let it rest."

She wanted him to be right so much. Their eyes locked onto one another's and for a moment it seemed as though he wasn't only talking about her. Maybe they were both done, both ready and allowed to move on.

The sound of steps on the staircase broke their connection and Tony emerged, Tali halfway hidden behind his leg. The strain of tears was still etched on her little face, red-rimmed eyes peeking out under a mat of fallen curls. Her hand was clasped tightly around Tony's thumb and forefinger.

No sight more pressing, Tony sought Ziva's eyes and she looked up, finding his and found herself, her pain and sorrow, reflected in them. She blinked and reached out a hand towards her little girl. With a gentle prompt from her father, Tali rushed forward. She locked herself around Ziva's neck, grabbing fists of hair and holding on. Ziva lifted her into her lap, Tali's legs dropping on either side of her waist, and pressed a heavy, urgent kiss onto the crown of her head.

"Ani mitzta'eret, Ima," Tali whispered against Ziva's chest, her breath catching on a new batch of tears that threatened to fall.

"No more tears, ahava," Ziva implored. She pulled back just enough to wipe at the moisture under Tali's eye. Her cheeks, spotted red, felt tender to her touch. She leaned her forehead against her daughter's for the sincerest vow. "I promise you, I'm not going away. We are all going home together."

Tali nodded and sank back onto her shoulder. Ziva rested a palm on the side of her face and slid back on the couch, repositioning Tali, their legs entangling. Tony came over and placed a hand on Tali's back. He glanced at Ziva, their eyes meeting and in his the silent question for her wellbeing that she had received so many times before. She nodded her head, an almost indistinguishable jolt, and he brushed a hand over her knee. Then he left them, joining the other two in the kitchen, to be, just mother and daughter.

They had stilled, wild hearts slowed. Tali lay perfectly still, prone in her lap, face half-buried in her shoulder and one of Ziva's arms supporting the curve of her back. Clanging and bustling from the kitchen faded into the background. Absently, Tali traced a fingertip over the chain around Ziva's neck, down and up, down and up. She knew the necklace was about her and her birthday.

"Ima?", she asked, speaking softly against Ziva's shirt.

"Hmm?"

"You cried," she observed, looking up at her then. She wiped at the blotchy red patches on Ziva's cheek, being so careful and diligent it felt as though she was afraid too much contact could blister her fingertips.

"I did."

"I'm sorry I hit you."

"You are forgiven, my love," Ziva assured her, taking a hold of her daughter's hand and blowing a soft kiss against it. "But it's not okay to hit someone when you get angry."

"I gotta use my words," Tali added dutifully, heaving a ragged, all-knowing sigh. "Abba said already."

"I know it is hard for you when I have to go away," Ziva confessed, a whisper meant for no one but her daughter. "I do not like us to be apart any more than you do, Tali. But sometimes grown-ups have to go away and take care of things. Do their job. It's just what it is. Do you understand?"

"Abba doesn't have a job," Tali reasoned, peering up at her.

"He does, actually," Ziva replied. "But he does it when you're at school. From his desk at home. But he might not do that forever."

Tali's eyes widenend. "He'll go away too?"

"Maybe," Ziva said. "He might get a job where he has to go away every day. Like you go to school every day. But he will be back in the afternoons, just like you."

"What if he gets a job like you?", Tali asked then, voice so small it broke Ziva's heart. "Then he won't be back for ages."

"Aw, my love," Ziva sighed, tracing a finger over the deep wrinkles on her daughter's forehead. "So much worry for such a little girl." She cupped her cheek. "He might, Tali. Someday. But still, we will always come back."

Her mind balked at making such grandiose promises, but then Ziva thought of the past three years, of a life lived in danger and in fear, and at that moment, her daughter's peace of mind was more important than the pains of reality.

"But your job is scary, Ima," Tali whispered, eyes dropping once again.

Ziva put a finger under Tali's chin, tipping her face up to look at her. "You were very scared for me, weren't you, my love? Whenever I left?"

Tali nodded. "Abba too," she added quietly.

"Me three," Ziva admitted, offering her daughter a brave smile.

"But nothing makes you scared, Ima," Tali countered, sitting up straighter in Ziva's arms.

"Oh, ahava." Ziva laughed a little at this, brushing Tali's hair out of her eyes and looking at her sadly. "I was scared all the time."

"Really?"

"Beehlet."

Tali circled her arms around Ziva's middle as if she could make the scary go away, like her parents always did for her, just holding her and the nightmares would leave, just like that.

"Do you have to do the scary job again when we get home?", she asked, muffled and quiet.

"No, I am done with that job," Ziva assured her. She took a hold of Tali's arms, pulling back and locking eyes with her daughter's. "And I promise you I am not going to do that job anymore. Will you believe me?" Tali nodded and a tiny smile started to form. Ziva sighed. "I am so sorry, Taliah."

To her surprise, Tali just shrugged her shoulders. "It's okay, Ima. 's not your fault."

It took a moment for Tali's words to register. When they did, she couldn't stifle a small laugh, disbelief at the simple absolutions in life. She smiled and nuzzled her daughter's cheek.

"I love you so much, ahava."

"How much?", Tali asked. A small mischievous grin tugged at her lips. She slipped an arm around Ziva's shoulder, bringing her face right up to hers, her buoyant airs returning.

Ziva waited a moment, knitting her eyebrows together in deep, exaggerated thought. "To the sun and back," she decided suddenly, smiling and wiggling her nose against her daughter's.

Tali giggled. "That's sooo far."

"It is. But that's how much I love you."

"Then I love you that much too, Ima," she declared, smacking a kiss onto Ziva's lips.

She then wiggled back down and curled herself tightly against Ziva's chest. Peering into her daughter's face, eyelids drooping over her bright green eyes, a rush of love filled Ziva up, all up, and she swayed from side to side, side to side, gentle fingers trailing Tali's hairline, sh-sh-sh-ing her until exhaustion won out and she had fallen asleep.

Neither Ziva nor Tony had the heart to wake her and take her back upstairs, so they left her napping on the couch while they finished packing around her. Jack insisted on making them dinner and Gibbs, to both Tony's and Ziva's surprise, appeared more than happy to act as her sous-chef. Dinner conversations drifted by without lingering, but they spent a significant amount of time just watching Jack and Gibbs argue over whether or not she could get him to accompany her on a trip to France.

Tali kept her input to a minimum, remaining a notable but not unusual brand of quiet. She had hovered close-by all afternoon, coloring at the coffee table and always an attentive eye on both her Ima and Abba. The picture she had later presented them, matter-of-factly and not even waiting for their praises, found all three of them, together holding hands, on a bright green slab of grass beside their house. With a piddling brown blob stuffed in a big black box by the house, Tali had also summarily and symbolically discarded of Ziva's duffle bag in that week's garbage. Ziva didn't know whether Tali's picture was a dream, a promise or becoming fact, but she did know that she would no longer have to carry it around instead of actual family portraits.

For their last night, Tali snuggled and wedged herself between them as they watched a movie and fallen asleep, the fourth act's big reveal still outstanding. Tony carried her upstairs, no change of clothes and no bath, just leaving her be. When he returned to the hallway, he caught Ziva right as she stepped out of the shower.

"Munchkin hit you good," he observed with a pained grimace, his hand hovering over a bruise that was forming on her collar bone.

Ziva hadn't really taken a good look at herself while undressing, so stepped closer to the mirror now, towel-clad, and traced a delicate finger over the two-inch splotch mark of her daughter's temper. She winced slightly and watched in the mirror as Tony placed his hands on her shoulders.

"All this time I have been so scared to never make it back to her," Ziva admitted, leaning into him. "I didn't ever really think what would happen when I did."

"It's fine," he assured her. "We'll figure it out. We'll buy bulletproof vests if we have to. We'll work out her anxieties, one step at a time. Like we've always done. I promise."

She turned around, lifting herself up on her tiptoes to kiss him. "Thank you."

"Thank you for making it back."

"Thank you for staying."

They lingered for a moment, both vaguely smiling. Their eyes started their silent dance, every twitch and flex of muscle around her eyes leading to a likewise response in Tony's as her mind ran through the times and the story. He felt her shiver suddenly, her hand tensing around the flimsy knot that held her towel in place. He grabbed her change of clothes from the hamper by the door and she let go, towel crumpling on the floor. With her skin still flush from the hot shower her scars were protruding, even after all these years, as steady reminders of what had and could have been. She didn't need a savior, no; but her scars needed acknowledging. And he did so gladly.

He watched her, not taking his eyes off hers, while she picked from his hand each piece and slipped it on, loose-fitting sweatpants, his baggy t-shirt. Finally, she pulled her hair up and stepped closer, grabbing his wrists and moving his arms around her. He reciprocated ever so gently, linking his hands over the small of her back. She sagged into him, as if the tension of three years spent suspended in midair between her family and the obligations of her past was slowly draining out of her. She braced her palms against his chest, her ear right over his heart.

"Time to become a ballerina," he said quietly and into her hair.

She chuckled a little. "Maybe it is," she agreed. "Tony?

"Yes?"

"I love you."

She could feel the muscles in his cheek tense with a smile. "I love you, too," he said. "To the sun and back, was it?"

"Yes. To the sun and back."

* * *

Chapter 6: **[Epilogue]**


	6. Epilogue

** **Family**: Epilogue **

After touching down in Paris' Charles de Gaulle airport, they took the same train, got on the same metro, and staid in the same hotel overnight. Tali loved the varied selection of tv channels, miming along to all the programs in the languages she could understand, so that the backdrop to Tony's and Ziva's celebratory glass on the balcony occurred to the backdrop of Spanish weather forecasts, an English sheep-shearing contest and a French outer-space kids' show. Deciding that she was still not big enough to sleep in her own bed again after all their travels, Tali then fell asleep wedged between them, arms and legs stretched wide and leaving but the farthest edges of the king-size to her parents.

They spent the next day enjoying the city as they had done so many years before — and hadn't yet, since. This time, of course, their stroll in the Tuileries involved less talking and more abiding by Tali's calls for taking every possible picture of the crowds, herself, and selfies that both involved her and, once she had taken control of Tony's phone, an exorbitant number of shots of her parents, flatteringly taken from behind and from all the way below them. Ziva got her money shot of Tali on Tony's shoulders, touching the tip of the glass pyramid, and Tony got one of Ziva and Tali on a carrousel that felt, to him, oddly prophetic.

They devoted their second day back in Paris to packing up Ziva's apartment. Neither of them commented on just how little stuff she had managed to accumulate over the past three years. Just once Tali observed, ever astute and the daughter of professional investigators, that there were more of Ima's books on their living room shelf than in the box they had just taped shut. They piled the entire stack of them into a rental car and left. On their way out of the city, Ziva put the apartment up for sale online and a new renter was found no two weeks later.

"What would Eli think, you think?", Tony asked her on the way home from signing the contract, catching a near-drop of his ice cream with the tip of his tongue.

Not taking her eyes off hers in the gleaming afternoon sun, Ziva slipped her hand into his and merely shrugged. "It's just too much to hold on to."

Tali newly demanded regular video-calls to the entire extended family and talks of US-bound traveling now involved making plans to visit Nonno along with the whole lot of them. If Bishop was to be believed, Gibbs had been dropping hints about retiring. Delilah, too, had involved herself personally in this particular mystery quest that involved long theorizing about small hints and stray comments.

"What's Tim got to say on it anyway?", Tony inquired, peering over Ziva's shoulder at Delilah's head on the screen.

"I'm not sure, actually," Delilah replied, looking behind her by sheer force of instinct. The squeals of ongoing bath time rituals could be heard all the way to their banlieue house in Paris. "He doesn't seem too keen on the job the way it is right now."

"And having a dual lead?", Ziva offered. "He sounded quite serious about that idea two weeks ago."

Delilah nodded. "He's so tight-lipped, though. I think he's been working on a concept for a while. He's been glued to his tablet even more than usual."

The PI agency was the next thing to go. Ziva had no interest in continuing it and had twisted and twirled Tony's offhand ballerina comment in her mind long enough that it came out martial arts and self defense classes for women. Three months after the Betancourt case had officially closed, they had started refurbishing their basement into a permanent training room and Ziva was well into assembling all the permits. She would work from home and Tony, in a moment of unbridled self-reflection, decided to take over from her and make it into a legitimate business.

"Of course," was Ziva's offhand and enthusiastic response to his hesitant proposition while they were preparing dinner one evening.

"You think?"

"You're good at finding people."

He flashed her a smile, leaning against the counter and utterly too close. "You. Perfect strangers. It's about the same thing," he quipped.

"Similar enough. The same impulses." She winked at him, absently stirring pasta sauce (Tali's current favorite).

"D'you think you'd ever want to go back to it?"

"No," she declared, resolute. "I've fought enough for two lifetimes."

Together the three of them decided on the school Tali would go to. In a bout of characteristic over-eagerness, they celebrated the day her acceptance letter arrived with a first shopping trip for the starter pack of bag, pens and markers, folders and notebooks and stickers. She would start in the fall, and already was the guest room a shrine to her excitement about being basically grown-up now, as they had been informed on multiple occasions.

And Ziva was there: for all the excitement, the outbursts, the bedtimes, the nightmares, the therapy sessions, the anxieties, the early mornings and Saturday evenings snuggled together on the couch, the lice that had maliciously threatened Tali's locks, the flu season right around Hanukah last year, and the mother-daughter reading night last Wednesday.

"Are you sure you want me to do this?", Tony checked for the third time that morning, kneeling in front of the gas tanks tucked away beneath the barbecue. "I'm sure Chef Gibbs would take more kindly to an undercooked organic, GM-free, farm-raised, happy-go-lucky steak when it's coming from you, sweet cheeks."

"But what would the establishment say if they saw your very pregnant partner handling fire?", Ziva teased, running a hand through the short crop of hair at the base of his neck. She smirked when a noticeable shiver ran down his back.

"Wife," he corrected her.

He drew himself back up and tapped the rhodium-plated band on her ring finger. Then he tilted his head at her, smirk and all, and caught her lips in a kiss. She closed her eyes and he rested a hand on her bulging stomach.

"Oh my!", he groaned with an air of ominous foreboding, pulling them into the next moment.

Ziva looked up and followed his eyes all the way across the patio, beyond the glass doors and back into the house, where she noticed Tali toing and froing in the living room.

"She's wearing the dress_._"

"The dress" had been a present from Nonno on his latest visit: sunshine colored, short-sleeved and slick beyond Tali's years, finished with an elaborate, multi-layered overskirt of light yellow taffeta. As of late, the dress had been her telltale sign that something serious and absolutely essential was about to happen: a show-and-tell at preschool, the stuffed animal theater night that had been put on for Tony and Ziva the other day, or any dance recital of late. In her logic, Abba always looked really, really nice when he went to work at the office (a rented two-room around the corner from Gare de l'Ouest), so the same had to be true for her. Despite Tony's deep frown, Ziva knew that their daughter's affinity for exuberant performance had a parental source, readily identifiable.

"She has a whole routine prepared," Ziva explained nonchalantly. "Auntie Jack and Uncle Jethro have never seen her perform before. Didn't you realize?" She smiled, matching her daughter's matter-of-fact tone and tilt perfectly.

"Maybe the new one will turn out more like you," Tony said, still staring at Tali. "The stealthy bits."

She offered a light "Ha" before turning on her heel and walking back into the house. Over the threshold, she almost lost her balance tripping over the toys and stuffed animals Tali had "cleared away." They had found her busy at work well ahead of her usual wake time, making room for her stage in the middle of the living room where she would be in full view of the couch. In the time Ziva had spent laying the table, the couch had been decked out with separate name tags for guests and family that included hand-drawn portraits of their owners.

"Taliah!", Ziva called, shaking her head and only barely succeeding at suppressing her smile.

"Ima?", the newly minted six-year-old responded, all innocence and glory. Her head peeked out from behind a tower of couch cushions.

"Can you please take these up to your room? Leave at least a path for us to walk in and out of the house?", Ziva requested.

Tali sauntered over and planted herself next to her mother. She angled her body just parallel to Ziva's and surveyed the collection of her assorted downstairs possessions. Weighing her mother's suggestion for a moment, chin tucked in, a finger pressed to it, she observed, "But then I have to bring it all back down when I'm done."

"Art, my love, means suffering," Ziva retorted, bending down to drop a kiss on her daughter's head and brush a hand over her curls. "Right away, please."

Tali sighed an exasperated sigh that rung with everlasting bohemian plight, but started the first of a number of trips up the stairs with full hands and a heavy heart. She was halfway through trip number three when the doorbell rang and called their little family to attention at once.

"They're here!"

Tali dropped her stuffed trio of wise monkeys on the floor, hear-no-evil monkey falling head first, and flew past her parents to answer the door.

"It can't be." Tony scoffed. "I told him I'd pick them up from the station."

Ziva frowned. "Did you really think Gibbs would wait to be picked up?"

"Well, no. Hey there, munchkin— Hold your badgers."

Tali was already working the keys in the lock but stopped short. "Who's there?," she asked dutifully, hands still itching on the doorknob.

"Will you open up, DiNozzo?", came Gibbs' frustrated grunt.

"That well clears it up." Tony smirked and threw open the door.

Ziva just shook her head, standing back as Tali dashed forward and awarded bear hugs to Jack and Gibbs, who were sporting matching duffle bags. She thought better than to comment, keeping her grin to herself.

Gibbs crouched down, holding out a neatly wrapped package. "This is for you, princess."

"Thanks, Uncle Jethro," Tali squealed, throwing her arms around his neck once more.

"And these are for your Ima." He got back up and handed a bouquet of wildflowers to Ziva.

"Thank you, both of you. They're beautiful," she replied, visibly touched, as she stepped forward for her own round of hugs.

"Let me find a vase," Tony offered, taking them from her. "Drinks everyone?"

They nodded, but lingered in the hallway. Both Jack and Gibbs had stilled to take in how clearly pregnant Ziva had become. It had only been four months since she and Tony had announced it in one of the fewer video calls Jack had been able to make Gibbs sit through.

Ziva laughed, noting their stares. "I know. The pictures don't do it justice."

"Christmas you were still thinking adoption, weren't you?", Jack asked, remembering the exact conversation at Senior's Washington apartment.

Ziva nodded, one hand cradling her protruding belly. "And we even started looking into it. And then it just happened. Which is apparently how we do things in this family," she remarked and brushed her other hand over Tali's curls.

Her little girl was already well through the two layers of newspaper wrapping paper. "Look Ima, it's a football!", she gushed, holding the box up to Ziva's face.

"Your dad mentioned you've started playing at school," Jack remarked, looking to Ziva for confirmation.

"She has."

"Can I try it, Ima? Can I, please?", Tali begged, her green eyes wide and well-proven cajoling shape.

"After we eat," Ziva dodged their powers expertly, her eyebrows rising as Tali's face fell. "You will have all afternoon, ahava. Now put it with your other things, please." With a short-tempered "humph" Tali set off towards the kitchen.

"But are you feeling okay? You're past the worst bit now?", Jack resumed her line of questioning, following Ziva inside.

"I will be past it when he's born," Ziva admitted since it was no use and the exhaustion in her eyes could not be kept a secret from anyone. She found no reason to be coy. "But he seems happy and healthy and we only have two more months to go." She each handed them the beer Tony had placed on the counter.

"L'chaim!" Jack raised her bottle and they clink-clink-clinked, smiling.

"And this time," Ziva added, the smile persisting on her face, "Tony's there."

"Hey, Ziva?", the man in question called, sticking his head in from the patio. "Gonna go play ball with Tali for a bit. Gibbs, you don't mind keeping an eye on the steaks, do you?" Flashing her a big knowing smirk and without waiting for an answer, he was gone.

"Sure is," Gibbs remarked dryly, taking a sip from his beer.

Just then, Tali scurried past them, now dressed in socks, shorts and a t-shirt (backwards in two places), and toting her trainers by the shoelaces. She pushed her sunshine taffeta dress at Ziva.

"I dunno how to do it like you," she urged.

"Not so fast—"

"Imaaa!"

"Your shirt, ahava," Ziva clarified, laughing at her patented impatience, and wrangled Tali to her side. Jake wordlessly accepted the dress and neatly folded it over the back of a dining room chair.

Ziva pulled the shirt over Tali's head, turned it over and smoothed down a crumpled sleeve. She rolled it up around the collar and held it out expectantly. Tali quickly stuck her head through, curls flying and skipping out of a haphazard ponytail, and off she went, red fabric wafting after her, out into the yard. Ziva only laughed. To the six-year-old everything was urgent and life advanced promising and wide-eyed. Her daughter would do, of that Ziva would make sure, whatever her heart desired.

She led Jack and Gibbs out underneath the white sun sail Tony had installed the day before. He had placed the wildflowers amid an already richly decorated table, bearing Tali's stamp of approval. She motioned towards the barbecue and Gibbs went to work right away as she took a seat in the shade; too much time on her feet again, as with her last pregnancy, sure to wear her out quickly. They watched Tony call instructions to Tali across their small backyard, all grass and no bushes, nor trees. The patience to start gardening still evaded them both.

After a while, Tali came rushing over, grinding to a halt by Ziva's chair and out of breath. "Water?", she guessed and Tali nodded eagerly.

Ziva filled a glass from a crystal carafe — a joke present for their quiet wedding that they had found on their doorstep and ultimately quite useful — and handed it to her daughter.

"Todah," she gulped out between sips.

"Careful, ahava," Ziva cautioned, chuckling. Suddenly a flutter radiated through her, eyebrows quirked in surprise and a smile bloomed on her face.

"Kicking?", Tali asked, recognizing her mother's reaction. Ziva nodded. Tali reached for her mother's stomach with both of her hands, palms up front. Ziva placed hers on top, guiding her. Tali giggled.

"Are you excited to become a big sister, Tali?", Jack asked.

Tali tossed her head up and down excitedly, now perching on Ziva's chair with a steadying arm around her mother's shoulder. "I picked all the colors in his room, so he can decide what he likes later," she explained, all business-tone. "And I get to help decide what his name's gonna be, too."

"You are?"

"Yup. Ima says it's only fair cause she got to decide mine." Ziva laughed at her daughter's utmost candidness. Tali just shrugged, like, "You said so."

"I like Levi a lot," she informed them.

"We done playing already?", Tony asked, coming up from the yard and tapping his daughter on the shoulder.

"Nah-uh. Just thirsty," Tali protested and jumped back up.

"You okay?", he then asked, crouching down by Ziva's feet and kissing her hand. "Hot? Tired? Hungry?"

"He's definitely getting hungry," she remarked, hand on her stomach.

"Give me twenty," Gibbs announced, closing the hood on the barbecue with a clunk.

"Enough time to teach your boy some technique," Jack proclaimed, getting up from her seat and offering her hand to Tali, who eagerly grabbed on. She turned back to Gibbs. "Hold my beer?" She winked, he obliged, and they smiled.

They heard Tony mumble something about "basketball" before practice resumed, Jack now kneeling beside and coaching Tali with a big show of hands, arm flying over her shoulder, first without a football, then with. Suddenly Ziva felt Gibbs standing behind her, bracing against the back of her chair. She reached up and took a hold of one of his hands, big and calloused.

"Here," she instructed, placing his palm just right. "Hungry and restless."

She could feel him relax against the baby's rally of impatient kicks, smile and all. "Tony reads to him every night, in all of our languages," she recounted, looking up to find Tony watching her, always, with a smile.

A moment passed, still and quiet, then Gibbs retrieved his hand. "Ziver?", she heard him ask and turned, peering up at him. His head was tilted to the side, a question in his eyes.

"Yes?"

"You happy?"

She nodded. "I am, Gibbs." He bent over and, to the sound of Tali cheering, placed a gentle kiss on her temple. She nodded again, certainty a sure force.

"I really am."

* * *

**The end.**


End file.
